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54 iW' '' ' y : \'.V 









THE STORY BOOK GIRLS 





N 



THE 

STORY BOOK GIRLS 


By 

CHRISTINA GOWANS WHYTE 


Neto gcrft 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON : THE MACMILLAN CO., Ltd. 

1906 


All rights reserved 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 


13 1906 

Copyright Entry 

/ A . / 9 o 4 

CLASS a_ XXCm No. 

/ L t S 

COPY B, 


Copyright, 1906, 

By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 


Set up and electrotyped. Published November, 1906. 


C 



^4 


Norixjoob 

J. S. Cushing & Co. — Berwick. & Smith Co. 
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 





CONTENTS 

Elma Leighton 

CHAPTER I 

PAGE 

1 

Miss Annie 

CHAPTER II 


CHAPTER IIP 


The FLojvER Show Ticket 24 

»*» 


CUTHBERT 

CHAPTER IV 

34 


CHAPTER V 


The Story Books Call 44 


The Mayonnaise 

CHAPTER VI 

Visitors Again 

CHAPTER VII 

. . . . , , . . 67 

V 


VI 


Contents 


PAGE 

CHAPTER VIII 

The Party 79 

CHAPTER IX 

At Miss Grace’s 90 

CHAPTER X 

Compensations 103 

CHAPTER XI 

The Split Infinitive 113 

CHAPTER XII 

The Burglar 125 

CHAPTER XIII 

A Reconciliation 137 

CHAPTER XIV 

The First Peal 148 

CHAPTER XV 

The Arrival ^ . . .158 

CHAPTER XVI 

The Thin End of the Wedge 168 


Contents vii 

PAGE 

CHAPTER XVII 

A Reprieve 173 

CHAPTER XVIII 

“Love of our Lives” 188 

CHAPTER XIX 

Herr Slavska 199 

CHAPTER XX 

The Shilling Seats 209 

CHAPTER XXI 

At Lady Emily’s 220 

CHAPTER XXII 

The Engagement 230 

CHAPTER XXIII 

Holding the Fort 240 

CHAPTER XXIV 

The Ham Sandwich 251 

CHAPTER XXV 


The Wild Anemone 


263 


Contents 


viii 

PAGE 

CHAPTER XXVI 

Under Royal Patronage 275 

CHAPTER XXVII 

The Home-Coming 286 

CHAPTER XXVIII 

Adelaide Maud 299 

CHAPTER XXIX 

Mr. Symington 312 

CHAPTER XXX 

“Now HERE THERE DAWNETH ” 326 


THE STORY BOOK GIRLS 





•;v 

V. 







CHAPTER I 


Elma Leighton 

In a pink and white bedroom where two beds, Elma’s 
and Betty’s, seemed the only pink and white things 
unspotted by multitudinous photographs, Elma Leigh- 
ton sought sanctuary. Pursued by a tumultuous 
accusing conscience, which at the same time gracefully 
extended the uncertain friendliness of hope, for who 
could say — it might still be “embarrassment,” she 
opened her little own bright red dictionary. 

She prayed a trifling prayer that her self-esteem 
might be saved, as she turned shakingly the fine India 
paper of the 50,000 word compressed edition of the 
most reliable friend she at that moment possessed in 
the world. Parents commanded. Relations exagger- 
ated. Chums could be spiteful. But friends told the 
truth, and the dictionary — being invariably just — was 
above all things a friend. 

She wandered to “en,” forgetting in the champion- 
ship of her learning that “m” held priority. She cor- 
rected herself with dignity, and at last found the word 
she wanted. 

It was embarrassment. 

Woe and desolation ! A crimson shameful blush 
ran up the pink cheeks, her constant anxiety being 

B I 


2 


The Story Book Girls 

that they were always so pink, and made a royal pro- 
gress there. The hot mortification of despair lent it 
wings. She watched the tide of red creep to the soft 
curls of her hair as she viewed herself in her own little 

miniature cheval between creamy curtains, and she 

saw her complexion die down at last to an unusual 
but becoming paleness. 

She had said “embarrassment.” 

Nothing could have been more fatal. It was like 

a disease with Elma, that instead of using the every- 
day words regarding which no one could make a mis- 
take — such as “shyness” in this instance — she should 
invariably plunge into others which she merely knew 
by sight and find them unknown to herself as talking 
acquaintances. Cousin Dr. Harry Vincent, Staff Sur- 
geon in His Majesty’s Navy, eyeglass in eye, merry 
smile at his lips (“such a dashing cousin the Leightons 
have visiting them” was the comment), the sort of 
person in short that impressed Elma with the need of 
being very dashing herself, here was the particular of 
all particulars before whom she had made this ridicu- 
lous mistake. 

“Now,” had said Dr. Harry in the drawing-room 
when visitors arrived, “come and play something.” 

Any other girl overcome by Elma’s habitual fright 
when asked to play, would have said, “I’m too shy.” 
Elma groaned as she thought how easy that would 
have been. 

But Dr. Harry’s single eyeglass fascinated her as 
with a demand for showing some kind of culture. 

She blinked her eyelids nervously and answered, 
“My embarrassment prevents me.” 


Elma Leighton 


3 


Dr. Harry never moved a muscle of his usually 
mobile and merry countenance. But the flaming 
sword of fear cut further conversation dead for Elma. 
She became subtly conscious that the word was wrong, 
and fled to her room. 

“While I’m here,” she said dismally, “I may as 
well look up ‘melodramic.’” This was a carking 
care left over from a conversation in the morning. 

It proved another tragedy. 

Being really of a cheerful sunny nature, which never 
for long allowed clouds to overshadow the bright 
horizon of her imagination, she acquainted herself 
thoroughly with the right term. 

“One consolation is, I shall never make that mis- 
take again as long as I live. Melodramatic,” she 
repeated with the swagger of familiarity. 

Then “emb, emb — Oh! dear, I’ve forgotten again.” 

Concluding that embarrassment was a treacherous 
acquaintance, she decided to drop it altogether. 

“After this I shall only be shy,” she said with a 
certain amount of refined pleasure in her own humour. 

She regarded her figure dismally in the cheval. Her 
chubby face had regained its undistinguished pink. 
She was sorry she could not remain pale, it was so 
much more distinguished to be pale. 

“How long I take to grow up — in every way.” 
She sighed in a reflective manner. 

What she was thinking was how long she took to 
become like one of the Story Book Girls. 

It is probable that she would never have run to 
long words, had it not been her dearest desire to grow 
up like one of the Story Book Girls. It was the desire 


4 


The Story Book Girls 

of every sister in the Leighton family. Each worked 
on it differently however. Mabel, the eldest, now 
seventeen, in the present delights of hair going up 
and skirts letting down, took her ideas of fashion 
straight from “Adelaide Maud” the elegant one. 
“Adelaide Maud” wore her hair in coils and sat under 
heliotrope parasols. Mabel surreptitiously tried that 
effect as often as five times a day with the family 
absent. 

Jean threw all her ambitions on the sporting carriage 
of “Madeline” who was a golfer. 

Betty determined to wear bangles and play the 
violin because “Theodore,” the youngest of the lot, 
did that. And Elma based her admiration of “Her- 
mione” on the fact that she had “gone in” for 
science. Long ago they had christened their divinities. 
It did not do to recognize latterly that the Dudgeons 
were known in society by other names altogether. 
One can do these dreamy, inconsequent things with 
the most superb pleasure while one’s family remains 

between certain romantic ages ; in the case of the 

Leightons at the moment when Elma ran to her bed- 
room — between the ages of ten and seventeen. Betty 
was ten, Elma twelve, Jean fifteen and Mabel 

seventeen. 

It was an axiom with the girls that their parents 

need not know how they emulated the Story Book 
Girls. Yet the information leaked out occasionally. 

It was also considered bad form to breathe a word 
to the one elder brother of the establishment. Yet 
even there one got into trouble. 

“Why on earth do you call her Adelaide Maud 


Elma Leighton 


5 


when her name is Helen?” asked Cuthbert one day 
bluntly. “Met her at a dance — and she nearly slew 
me. I called her Miss Adelaide I ” 

“O — o — o — oh !” 

It is impossible to explain the thrill that the four 
underwent. Cuthbert had met Adelaide Maud ! 

“Did she talk about us?” asked Elma breathlessly. 

“Doesn’t know you kids exist,” said Cuthbert. 

Here was a tumbling pack of cards. 

However, the idylls of the Story Book Girls soon 
were built up again. 

Four girls at the west end of a town dreamed dreams 
about four girls at a still further west. They lived 
where the sun dropped down behind blue mountains 
in the sunny brilliant summer time. The Story Book 
Girls were grown up, of “county” reputation, and 
“sat in their own carriages.” The others invariably 
walked. This was enough to explain the fact that 
they never met in the quiet society of the place. But 
one world was built out of the two, and in it, the 
younger girls who did not ride in carriages, created 
an exi tence for the Story Book Girls which would 
have astonished them considerably had they known. 
As it was, they sometimes noticed a string of large- 
eyed girls with a good-looking brother, going to church 
on Sunday, but it never dawned on one of them that 
the tallest carried a heliotrope parasol in a manner 
familiar to them, nor that another exhibited a rather 
extraordinary and highly developed golfing stride. 
Grown-up girls do not observe those in the transition 
stages, and just at the fiercest apex of their admiration 
the Leightons were certainly at the transient stage. 


6 


The Story Book Girls 

They reviewed their own growing charms with the 
keenest anxiety. Everybody was hopeful of Mabel 
who seemed daily to be shedding angularities and 
developing a presence which might one day be com- 
pared with Adelaide Maud’s. The time of her seven- 
teenth birthday had drawn near with the family 
palpitating behind her. Mrs. Leighton remembered that 
delicious period of her own youth, and was indulgently 
friendly, “just a perfect dear.” 

“We are going to make a very pretty little woman 
of Mabel,” she informed her husband. He was a tall 
man, with a fine intellectual forehead, and handsome, 
clear-cut features. He stooped slightly, giving an 

impression of gentleness and great amiability. He 
answered in some alarm. 

“You don’t mean that our little baby girl is growing 
up.” 

“Elma declares she reaches her ‘frivolity’ in 

May,” said Mrs. Leighton sedately. A quiet smile 
played gently over a face, lined softly, yet cleared of 
care as one sees the mother face where happy homes 
exist. 

Mr. Leighton groaned sadly and rubbed his finger 
contemplatively along the smoothed hair which made 
a gallant attempt at hiding more than a hint of bald- 
ness. 

“Why can’t we keep them babies!” 

“Betty thinks we do,” said his wife. 

“One boy at College, and one girl coming out! 
It’s overwhelming. We were only married yesterday, 
you know,” said poor Mr. Leighton. 

It troubled Mrs. Leighton that Mabel insisted on 


Elma Leighton 


7 


wearing heliotrope. She had white of course for her 

coming out dress, and among other costumes the 

choice of colours for a fine day gown. The blue eyes 
of the Leightons were gifts handed down by a benefi- 
cent providence through a long line of ancestors, and 
one wise mother after another had matched the heavenly 
radiancy of these wide orbs as nearly as possible in 
sashes and silks for the children. Therefore Mrs. 
Leighton begged Mabel to have at least that one day 
gown in blue. 

“I begin to be sorry I said you might have what 

you liked,’’ she said dismally. “Heliotrope will 

make you look like your grandmother.” 

“Oh no it won’t,” clamoured Jean. “It will only 
make her look like Adelaide Maud.” 

“Traitor,” was the expression on three faces. 

Sporting Jean had really rather a dislike to the 
garden-party smartness of Adelaide Maud, and oc- 
casionally prejudice did away with honour. 

“I’m joking,” she said penitently. “Do let her 

wear heliotrope, mummy.” 

Mrs. Leighton sighed amiably yet disappointedly, 
but at last gave Mabel permission to wear heliotrope. 
They had patterns from Liberty and Peter Robinson’s 
and Woolland’s in London, and a solid week of rapture 
ensued while Mabel saw herself gowned in a hundred 
gowns and fixed on none. 

They sat over the patterns one day with Mrs. Leigh- 
ton in attendance. Mabel’s choice lay between fifteen 
different qualities of heliotrope. 

“I shall have this,” she said one minute, and “No, 
this” the next. 


8 


The Story Book Girls 

“Patterns not returned within ten days will be 
charged for,” quoted Jean. 

Just then a certain rushing sound of light wheels 
could be heard. Each girl glanced quickly out of the 
window. The clipity-clop of a pair of horses might 
be clearly distinguished; and through the green trees 
skirting the bottom of the garden, appeared patches 
of colour. 

Two Story Book Girls drove past, Adelaide Maud 
and Theodore. Theodore was sitting in any kind of 
costume — what did her costume matter ? 

Adelaide Maud was in blue. 

The girls gazed breathlessly at one another. 

“I think you must really now make up your mind,” 
said Mrs. Leighton patiently, whose ears were not 
attuned so perfectly to distinction in carriage wheels. 

Mabel glanced round for support. 

“Oh, mummy,” said she very sweetly, “I do 
believe you were right. I shall have blue after all.” 

That was a few weeks before the great day when 
Mabel attained her “frivolity” and put up her hair. 
Cousin Harry’s being with them gave an air of festivity 
to the occurrence, and curiously enough, Mrs. Leigh- 
ton’s drawing-room filled with visitors on that after- 
noon as though to celebrate the great occasion. 

Throughout her life Elma never forgot to link the 
delight of that day, when for the first time they all 
seemed to grow up, with the despair of her sallies in 
Cousin Harry’s direction. 

When she did trail back to the drawing-room, crushed 
yet educated, she found Mabel with carefully coiled 
hair standing in a congratulatory crowd of people, 


Elma Leighton 9 

looking more like Adelaide Maud than one could have 
considered possible. 

“Such excitement,” whispered Jean. “Mrs. Maclean 
has brought her nephew and he knows the Story Books.” 

It put immediate thoughts of having to explain to 
Cousin Harry out of Elma’s mind. 

“Oh, do you know,” she said excitedly to him, “I 
want one thing most awfully. I want to know Mr. 
Maclean so well in about five minutes as to ask him a 
fearfully particular question.” 

Dr. Harry, who, as he always explained to people, 
was continually nine hundred and ninety-nine days 
at sea without meeting a lady, could be counted on 
doing anything for one, once he had the chance of being 
ashore. Even a half-grown lady of Elma’s type. 

“Mr. Maclean shall stand on his head inside of three 
minutes,” he promised her. 

Elma noticed a new twinkle in his eye. It enabled 
her to take her courage in both hands and confess to 
him. 

“I’m always trying to use long words. Cousin Harry. 
It’s like having measles every three minutes. It was 
awfully nice of you not to laugh. I went to look it 
up, you know.” 

Nothing pleased Elma so much as the naturalness 
with which she made this confession. She felt more 
worldly and developed than she could have considered 
possible. 

Cousin Harry roared. 

“Try it on the Maclean man,” he said. 

But Mr. Leighton had that guest in tow, and they 
talked art and politics until tea appeared. Elma 


lo The Story Book Girls 

did all she could in connection with the passing of 
cups to get near him, but Cuthbert and Harry and 
Mr. Maclean were too diligent themselves. She saw 
Mr. Maclean’s eyes fixed on Mabel when she at last 
gained her opportunity. Mabel had gone in a very 
careful manner, hair being her chief concern, to play 
a Ballade of Chopin, and this provided an excellent 
moment for Elma to sidle into a chair close to Mr, 
Maclean. It was pure politeness, she observed, which 
allowed any one to stare as much as one liked while a girl 
played the piano. Mr. Maclean was quite polite. 

Mabel had the supreme talent which already had 
made a name for the Leighton girls. She could take 
herself out of trivial thoughts and enter a magic world 
where one dreamed dreams. Into this new world she 
could lift most people with the first touch of her fingers 
on the keys of the piano. 

Elma’s thoughts soared with the others, and Mabel 
played till a little rebellious lock of the newly arranged 
plaits fell timorously on her neck. She closed with a 
low beautiful chord. 

Mr. Maclean sighed gently. 

Elma leant towards him. 

“You know the — er — Dudgeons, don’t you? Do 
you know the eldest?” 

He nodded. 

“Is Mabel like her?” she asked anxiously. 

“Mabel,” said Mr. Maclean. 

“Yes, Mabel. Is she — almost — as pretty, do you 
think?” 

“Mabel is a thousand times more pretty than Miss 
Dudgeon,” said Mr. Maclean. 


Elma Leighton 1 1 

“Oh, Mr. Maclean!” said Elma. 

He could not have understood her sigh of rapture if 
he had tried to. At that moment his thoughts were 
not on Elma. 

She was quite content. 

She sank back on the large easy chair which she had 
appropriated, and she felt as though she had brought 
up a large family and just at that moment seen them 
settled in life. 

“Oh, I do feel heavenly,” she whispered to herself. 
“Mabel is prettier than Adelaide Maud.” 

“I beg your pardon?” asked Mr. Maclean. 

“Oh, nothing — nothing,” said Elma. “I don’t even 
care about emb — emb — Do you mind if I ask you?” 
she inquired. “Is it embarra.y.yment or embarrass- 
ment?” 

“Embarrassment,” said Mr. Maclean. 

“Thank you,” said Elma. “I don’t care whether I’m 
embarrassed now or not, thank you.” 


CHAPTER II 


Miss Annie 

Of course one had to go immediately and tell all this to 
Miss Annie. 

Miss Annie lived with her sister in a charming veran- 
dahed house, hidden in wisteria and clematis, and every- 
thing was delightful in connection with the two sisters 
except the illness which made a prisoner of Miss Annie. 
Miss Annie lay on a bed covered with beautiful drawn 
thread work over pink satinette and wore rings that 
provoked a hopeless passion in Elma. 

Whenever she considered that one day she might 
marry a duke, Elma pictured herself wearing Miss Annie’s 
rings. 

From the drawn thread work bed Miss Annie ruled 
her household, and casually, her sister Grace. It never 
appeared that Miss Annie ruled Miss Grace however; 
nothing being more affectionate than the demeanour 
of the two sisters. But long ago, the terrifying nature of 
Miss Annie’s first illness made such a coward of poor, 
sympathetic Miss Grace, that never had she lifted a 
finger, or formed a frown to reprove that dear patient, 
or prevent her having her own way. The nature of Miss 
Annie’s illness had always been a source of great mystery 
to the Leighton girls. It was discussed in a hidden 


12 


Miss Annie 


13 


kind of way in little unintelligible nods from grown up 
to grown up, and usually resolved itself into the impor- 
tant phrase of “something internal.” Old Dr. Merry- 
weather, years ago, had landed himself into trouble 
concerning it. “A poor woman would get on her feet 
and fight that tendency of yours,” he had said to Miss 
Annie. “Money simply encourages it. You will die 
on that bed if you don’t fight a little. Miss Annie.” 
Miss Annie had replied that in any case her bed was 
where she intended to die, and forthwith procured, 
quite sweetly and pathetically, yet quite determinedly, 
another doctor. That was over twenty years ago; 
but Miss Grace still passed Dr. Merryweather in the 
street with her head down in consequence. She did 
all she could to provide the proper distraction for Miss 
Annie, by encouraging visitors and sacrificing her own 
friends to the leadership of her sister. Miss Annie had 
always shone in a social sense, and she let none of her 
talents droop merely because she was bedridden. It 
was considered a wonderful thing that she should manage 
the whole household, to the laying down or taking up 
of a carpet in rooms which she never saw. Gradually, 
on account of this wonderful energy of Miss Annie’s, 
Miss Grace acquired a reputation for ineptitude to 
which her sister constantly but very gracefully alluded. 
“Poor Grace,” she sighed. “Grace takes no interest 
in having things nice.” 

It was Miss Grace however who, in her shy old- 
fashioned manner, showed interest in the blue-eyed, 
fair-haired Leighton children, and introduced them 
to her sister when they were practically babies. She 
decoyed them into the house by biscuits covered with 


14 The Story Book Girls 

pink icing; which none of them ever forgot, or allowed 
themselves to do without. Even Mabel, with her 
hair up, accepted a pink biscuit at her first tea there 
after that great occasion. They always felt very small 
delicious children when they went to Miss Annie’s. 
They had acquired, through Miss Annie, a pleasant 
easy manner of taking the nervous fussy attentions of 
Miss Grace. It was astonishing how soon they could 
show that in this establishment of magnificence. Miss 
Grace did not count. She' was immaterial to the general 
grandeur of the verandahed palace belonging to Miss 
Annie. They were always on their best behaviour in 
the house where not only a footman, but an odd man 
were kept, and Elma, at the age of seven, had been 
known to complain to Mrs. Leighton when a housemaid 
was at fault, “We ought to have a man to do this!” 
Indeed there seemed only one conclusion to it with Elma 
that after knowing exactly what it was to call on people 
who had men servants, in her youth, when she grew up 
she should be obliged to marry a duke. The duke always 
met her when she waited for Miss Grace in the drawing- 
room. He had a long curling moustache, and wore his 
hair in waves on either side of a parting, very clamped 
down and oily, like Mr. Lucas, the barber. It was 
years before she sacrificed the curling moustache to a 
clean-shaven duke, and shuddered at the suggestion of 
oil in his hair. 

The despair of her life stood in the corner of the white 
and gold drawing-room. It was an enormous Alexander 
harmonium. Once, in an easy moment, on conversing 
affably with her duke in a whisper, she had suggested 
to him that Miss Grace might let her play on this instru- 


Miss Annie 


15 

ment. Miss Grace, coming in then, was in time to see 
her lips moving, and considered that the sweet child 
worked at her lessons. Elma was too sincere to deceive 
her. “I was talking to myself and wondering if you 
would let me play on the harmonium.’’ 

She should never forget the frightened hurt look on 
Miss Grace’s face. 

“Never ask me that again, dear child. It was hers — 

when she was able to — to ” Miss Grace could go 

no further. 

The blue eyes filling with frightened tears in front of 
her alarmed the gentlest soul in the world. 

“But, my pet,” she said very simply, “there’s my 
own piano.” 

Could one believe it? Off came all the photograph 
frames, and the large Benares vases on China silk, 
brought years ago from the other side of the world by 
Miss Grace’s father, and Elma played at last on a draw- 
ing-room grand piano. Mrs. Leighton’s remained under 
lock and key for any one below a certain age, and only 
the schoolroom upright belonged to Elma. What 
joy to play on Miss Grace’s long, shiny, dark, ruddy 
rosewood 1 She must have the lid full up, and music 
on the desk. Miss Grace made a perfect audience. 
Elma regretted sincerely the fact that her legs stuck 
so far through her clothes, so that she could not trail 
her skirts to the piano and arrange them as she screwed 
herself up on the music stool. However, what did a 
small thing like that matter while Miss Grace sat with 
that surprised happy look on her face, and let her play 
“anything she liked”? Anything Elma liked. Miss Grace 
liked. In fact. Miss Grace discovered in her gentle. 


1 6 The Story Book Girls 

amiable way, a wonderful talent in the child. It formed 
a bond between the two which years never broke. Miss 
Grace would sit with her knitting pins idle in her lap, 
and a far-away expression ' in the thin grey colour of 
her eyes. Elma thought it such a pity Miss Grace 
wore caps when she looked so nice as that. She would 
think these things and forget about them and think of 
them again, all the time her fingers caressed the creamy 
coloured keys, and made music for Miss Grace to listen 
to. Then exactly at four o’clock. Miss Grace seemed to 
creep back to her cap again, and say that tea would 
be going in and they must “seek Miss Annie.” 

Miss Annie poured tea from the magnificent teapot, 
which the footman carried in on a magnificent silver 
tray. She reclined gracefully in bed, reaching out a 
slender arm covered with filmy lace to do the honours 
of the tea table. Crumpets and scones might be passed 
about by Miss Grace. In a very large silver cake 
basket, amongst very few pieces of seed cake (Miss 
Annie took no other) Elma would find a pink biscuit. 
After that the ceremony of tea was over. It was 
wonderful to see how Miss Annie poured and talked and 
managed things generally. Elma could play to Miss 
Grace, but politeness somehow demanded that she 
should talk to Miss Annie. 

Elma had always, more than any of the Leighton 
children, amused Miss Annie. The little poses, which 
Miss Grace, with wonderfully sympathetic understanding, 
had translated into actual composition in music, the 
poses which caused Elma to be the butt of a robustly 
humorous family, crushing her to self-consciousness and 
numbness in their presence. Miss Annie had the supreme 


Miss Annie 


17 


wisdom never to shie at. Had not Miss Grace and she 
laughed secretly for years at Elma’s first delightful 
blunder ? 

“My father and mother are paying a visit to the 
necropolis. They are having a lovely time. Oh ! is 
that wrong? I’m sure it is. It’s London I mean.” 

They had known then not to laugh, and they never 
did laugh. The little figure, with two fierce pigtails 
tied radiantly with pink bows, the blue eyes, and very 
soft curling locks over the temples, how could they 
laugh at these? Instead they took infinite pains over 
Elma’s long words. Miss Annie herself invariably 
felt either “revived” or “resuscitated” or polished 
things of that description. It pleased her that such 
an intensely modern child should be sensitive to refine- 
ment in language. For a time Elma became famous as 
a conversationalist, and was known in her very trying 
family circle as Jane Austen or “Sense and Sensibility.” 
The consequences of her position sent her so many 
times tearful to bed, that at last she put a severe curb 
on herself and never used words that had not already 
been sampled and found worthy by her family. The 
afternoons at Miss Annie’s, however, where she could 
remove this curb, became very valuable. The result 
was that while things might be “scrumptious” or 
“awfully nice” or “beastly” at home, they suddenly 
became “excellent” or “delightful” or “reprehensible,” 
in that cultured atmosphere. Only one in the world 
knew the two sides to Elma, and that was her dear and 
wonderful father. She was never ashamed of either 
pose when completely alone with that understanding 
person. Her mother could not control the twitching at 
c 


1 8 The Story Book Girls 

the lips which denotes that a grown-up person is taking 
one in and making game of one. Elma’s father laughed 
with the loud laugh of enjoyment. It was the laughter 
Elma understood, and whether or not a mistake of hers 
had caused it, she ran on to wilder indiscretions merely 
in order to hear it again. Oh ! there was nobody quite 
so understanding as her father. 

He invariably sent his compliments to Miss Annie, 
and one day, to explain why she went there continually, 
she told him how she played on Miss Grace’s piano. 
He was greatly pleased, delighted in fact, and imme- 
diately wanted her to do the same for him. Elma’s 
sensitive soul saw the whole house giggling at herself 
and took fright as she always did at the mere mention 
of the exhibition of her talents. 

can’t, when Miss Grace isn’t there,” she had 
exclaimed, and neither she nor anybody else could 
explain why this should be, except Mr. Leighton 
himself, who looked long and with a new earnestness 
at his daughter, and never omitted afterwards in sending 
his compliments to the two ladies to mention Miss Grace 
first. 

Mabel was entirely different in the respect of playing 
before people. She played as happily and easily to a 
roomful as she did alone. She blossomed out with the 
warmth of applause and admiration as a rose does at 
the rising of the sun. 

“Mabel is prettier than Miss Dudgeon,” said Elma to 
Miss Annie on the day when she described the great 
“coming out” occasion. 

Miss Annie arrested the handsome teapot before 
pouring further. 


Miss Annie 


19 


‘‘What! anybody more pretty than Miss Dudgeon?’^ 
she asked. “That is surely impossible.” 

“Mr. Maclean said so,” said Elma. 

“And who is Mr. Maclean?” asked Miss Annie. 

“Oh — Mr. Maclean — Mr. Maclean is just Mrs. 
Maclean’s nephew. But he knows Miss Dudgeon, and 
he looked a long time at Mabel and said she was 
prettier.” 

“You must not think so much of looks, Elma,” said 
Miss Annie reprovingly. “Mabel is highly gifted, that 
is of much more consequence.” 

“Is it?” asked Elma. “Papa says so, though he 
won’t believe any of us can be gifted. He thinks there’s 
a great deal for us to learn. It’s very de-demoralizing.” 

“Demoralizing?” asked Miss Annie. 

“Yes, isn’t it demoralizing I mean, Miss Annie?” 
Elma begged in a puzzled manner. 

Miss Annie daintily separated half a slice of seed cake 
from the formal pieces lying in the beautiful filigree 
cake basket. 

“I do not think it is ‘demoralizing’ that you mean, 
dear. ‘Demoralizing’ would imply that your father, 
by telling you there was a great deal to learn, kept you 
from learning anything at all, upset you completely as 
it were.” 

Miss Annie was as exact as she could be on these occa- 
sions, when she took the place of the little bright red dic- 
tionary. 

This time her information seemed to please Elma 
immensely. Her eyes immediately shone brilliantly. 

“Oh, Miss Annie,” she said, “it must be ‘demora- 
lizing’ after all. That’s just how I feel. Papa tells 


20 


The Story Book Girls 

me, and I see the great big things to be done, and it 
doesn’t seem to be any use to try the little things. Like 
Mozart’s Rondos! They are so silly, you know. And 
when you see people like Mr. Sturgis painting big 
e-e-elaborate pictures, I simply can’t draw at school at 
all.” 

Miss Grace leant forward on her chair, pulling little 
short breaths as though not to lose, by breathing properly, 
one word of this. She considered it marvellous that 
this young thing should invariably be expressing the 
thoughts which had troubled her all her life, and never 
even been properly recognized by herself, far less given 
voice to. It enabled her on many occasions to see 
clearly at last and to be able, by the light of her own lost 
opportunities, to give counsel to Elma. 

Miss Annie’s eyes only looked calmly amused. It 
was an amusement to which Elma never took ex- 
ception, but to-day she wanted something more, 
to prevent the foolishness which she was afraid of 
experiencing whenever she made a speech of this nature. 
Miss Annie only toyed with a silver spoon, however, look- 
ing sweet and very kindly at Elma, and it was Miss Grace 
who finally spoke. 

She had recovered the shy equanimity with which 
she always filled in pauses for her sister. 

“You must not allow the fine work of others to para- 
lyze your young activities,” Miss Grace said gravely. 
“Mr. Sturgis was young himself once, and no doubt, 
at school, studied freehand drawing very diligently to 
be so great as he is now.” 

“Oh no,” said Elma, “that’s one of the funny parts. 
Mr. Sturgis doesn’t approve of freehand drawing at 


Miss Annie 


21 


all. He says it’s anything but freehand, he says it’s — 
it’s — oh! I mustn’t say it.” 

“Say it,” said Miss Annie cheerfully. 

“He says it’s rotten,” said Elma. 

There was something of a pause after this. 

“And it’s so funny with Mabel,” said Elma. “Mabel 
never practises a scale unless mamma goes right into 
the room and hears her do it. But Mabel can read off 
and play Chopin. And papa takes me to hear Liszt 
concertos and I can’t play one of them.” 

“You can’t stretch the chords yet, dearie,” said Miss 
Grace. 

“No, but it’s very demor — what was it I said?” she 
asked Miss Annie anxiously. 

“Demoralizing,” said Miss Annie. 

“And there’s paralyzing to,” said Elma gratefully. 
“That’s exactly how I feel.” 

She sat nursing one of her knees in a hopeless manner, 
until it struck her that neither Miss Annie nor Miss 
Grace liked to see her in this attitude. Nothing was 
ever said on these occasions, but invariably one knew, 
that in order not to get on the nerves of Miss Annie, one 
must sit straight and not fidget. Elma sat up therefore 
and resumed conversation. 

“Mabel says it is nothing to play a Liszt Concerto,” 
said Elma hopelessly. 

“Is Mabel playing Liszt?’’ asked Miss Grace in as- 
tonishment. 

“Mabel plays anything,” sighed Elma. 

“That is much better than being prettier than Miss 
Dudgeon,” said Miss Annie. 

She took up a little book which lay near her. It was 


22 


The Story Book Girls 

bound in white vellum and had little gold lines tooled 
with red running into fine gold clasps. Two angel 
heads on ivory were inserted in a sunk gold rim on the 
cover. Miss Grace saw a likeness in the blue eyes there 
to the round orbs fastened on it whenever Elma had 
to listen to the wisdom of the white book. The title 
The Soul’s Delineator fascinated her by its vagueness. 
She had never cared to let Miss Annie know that in grow- 
ing from the days when she could not even spell, the word 
“delineator” had remained unsatisfactory as a term to 
be applied to the soul. There was The Delineator of 
fashions at home — a simple affair to understand, but 
that it should be applied to the “ivory thoughts” of 
Miss Annie seemed confusing. Miss Annie moved her 
white fingers, sparkling with the future duchess’s rings, 
in and out among the gilt-edged pages. Then she 
read. 

“The resources of the soul are quickened and enlivened, 
not so much by the education of the senses, as by the 
encouragement of the sensibilities, i.e. these elements 
which go to the making of the character gentle, chival- 
rous, kind, in short, the elements which provoke manners 
and good breeding.” 

Miss Annie paused. Her voice had sustained a rather 
high and different tone, as it always did when she read 
from the white book. 

“Mabel has very nice manners, hasn’t she?” asked 
Elma anxiously. 

“Do you know that you have said nothing at all 
about the Story Book Girls to-day, and everything 
about Mabel?” said Miss Annie. “I quite miss my 
Story Books.” 


Miss Annie 


23 


Elma’s eyes glowed. 

Miss Annie had marked the line where the dream life 
was becoming the real life. Elma, in two days, had 
transferred her mise en schne of the drama of life from 
four far-away people to her own newly grown-up sister. 
It was a devotion which lasted long after the days of 
dreaming and imagining had passed for the imaginative 
Elma, this devotion and admiration for her eldest sister. 

In case she should not entertain Miss Annie properly, 
she ran back a little, and told her how it was that Mabel 
had got a blue gown after all. It was delightful to feel 
the appreciation of Miss Annie, and to watch the wrinkles 
of laughter at her eyes. 

Exactly at five o’clock however Miss Grace began to 
look anxiously at Miss Annie, and Miss Annie’s manner 
became correspondingly languid. 

“You tire your dear self, you ought not to pour out 
tea,” said Miss Grace in the concerned tone with which 
she always said this sentence at five o’clock in the 
afternoon. 

Saunders came noiselessly in to remove, and Elma bade 
a mute good-bye. 

“You tire yourself, dear,” said Miss Grace to Miss 
Annie once more, as she and Elma retired to the door. 

“I must fulfil my obligations, dear,” said Miss Annie. 

She nodded languidly to Elma, and Elma thought 
once again how splendid it was of Miss Annie to be 
brave like this, and wondered a trifle in her enthusiastic 
soul why for once Miss Grace did not pour out tea for 
her sister. 


CHAPTER III 


The Flower Show Ticket 

CALL it mean of Mabel.” 

Jean sat in a crinkled heap on her bedroom floor, 
and pulled bad-temperedly with a wire comb at straight 
unruly hair. It had always annoyed Mabel that Jean 
should use a wire comb, when it set her “teeth on edge 
even to look at it.” 

Mabel however was out of the way, well out of it, 
they decided, and Elma and Betty had invaded the 
room belonging to the elder two, in order to condole 
with Jean. 

“Mabel could easily have got another ticket — and 
said she didn’t want it ! Didn’t want it, when we’re 
dying to go ! And then off she goes, looking very 
prim and grown up with Cousin Harry.” 

Jean threw her head back, and began to gather long 
heavy ends in order for braiding. 

“Just wait till I grow up! I shall soon take it out 
of Mabel,” she said. 

“Oh girls, girls!” 

Mrs. Leighton’s voice at the door was very accusing. 

“Well, mummy, it was mean. We’ve always 
gone together before, and now Mabel won’t go with 
one of us.” 


24 


The Flower Show Ticket 


25 


“Not if you behave in this manner,” said Mrs. Leigh- 
ton. “I do not like any of my girls to be spiteful, you 
know.” 

“Spiteful!” exclaimed Jean. She ran rapid fingers 
in and out the lengthening braid of hair, till long ends 
were brought in front. She put these energetically in 
her mouth, while she hunted for the ribbon lying by 
her. 

“Oh, Jean,” said Mrs. Leighton, “I’ve asked you so 
often not to do that.” 

“Sorry, mummy,” said Jean, disengaging the ends 
abruptly. 

Mrs. Leighton sat down rather heavily on a chair. 

“You didn’t say you were sorry for being spiteful,” 
she remarked gravely. 

“Well, mummy, are we spiteful, that’s the question?” 

Elma sat on a bed, looking specially tragic. 

“It’s awjul to be left out of things now by Mabel,” 
she said. 

Betty looked as though she meant to cry. 

“Well, I never,” said Mrs. Leighton. “You must 
take your turn. You don’t come wherever your father 
and I go, or Cuthbert. You know you don’t.” 

“I think that Cuthbert might occasionally take us how- 
ever,” said Jean. 

“We all went to the flower show last year,” wailed 
Elma. 

“Yes, with the parasols papa brought us from Lon- 
don,” said Betty. “And Mabel said it was like carry- 
ing four bassinettes in a row, and snapped hers down 
and wouldn’t put it up till she got separated from 
us.” 


26 


The Story Book Girls 

^‘She was growing up even then,’’ said Jean in a 
melancholy manner. 

“Come, come, girls,” interrupted Mrs. Leighton. 
“You may be just the same when you grow up. I 

won’t allow you to be down on poor Mabel. Especially 
when she isn’t here to speak for herself.” 

“When we grow up, there will always be one less to 
tyrannize over,” said Jean. “Honestly, mother, I 
never would have thought that Mabel could be so 
priggish. Do you know why she wouldn’t have us ? 
I’m too big and gawky, and Elma is always saying 
silly things, and Betty is just a baby. There you 
are.” 

“Well it isn’t very nice of Mabel, but you mustn’t 
believe she means that,” said Mrs. Leighton. “And 

after all, Mabel must have her little day. She was very 
good, let me tell you, very sweet and nice when you were 
babies and she just a little thing. She nursed you, 

Elma and Betty, often and often, and put you to 

sleep when your own nurse couldn’t, and she has looked 
after you all more or less ever since. You might 
let her grow up without being worried.” 

“It’s hateful to be called a nuisance,” said Jean, 
somewhat mollified. 

“Why do you waste time over it, I wonder,” said 
Mrs. Leighton. “Instead of moping Jean might be 
golfing, and Elma and Betty having tea at Miss Annie’s; 
with nobody at all being nice to your poor old mother.” 

It dawned on them how selfish they might all be. 

“Oh, mummy,” cried three reproachful voices. 

“Well, Elma likes Miss Grace much better than she 
does me, and Betty likes her rabbits, and Jean despises 


The Flower Show Ticket 


27 

me because I don’t play golf. I lead a very lonely 
life,” said Mrs. Leighton. 

“Oh, mummy!” 

“My idea, when I ^ame into your room,” said Mrs. 
Leighton, “was to propose that we might walk into 
town and get Jean’s new hat, and take tea at Crowther’s, 
and drive home if my poor old leg won’t hold out for walk- 
ing both ways. But we’ve wasted so much time in 
talking about Mabel ” 

“ Oh, mummy — Your bonnet, your veil, and your 
gloves, and do be quick, mummy,” cried Lima. “We’re 
very sorry about Mabel.” 

They flew in self-reproachful manner to getting her 
off to her room and making their own things fly. 

“After all, we are a beastly set of prigs,” called out Jean 
to Lima. “And I think I ought to have a biscuit-coloured 
straw, don’t you?” 

It was one of a series of encounters with which 

the new tactics of Mabel invaded the family. Mrs. 
Leighton’s gentle rule was sorely tried for quite a long 
time in this way. Although she reasoned with the 
younger girls on the side of Mabel, she took Mabel 

severely to task for her behaviour over the flower 

show. 

“It wasn’t nice of you,” she told her, “to cut off any 
little invitation for your sisters. You must not 

begin by being selfish, you know. There are few enough 
things happening here not to spread the opportunities. 
Jean wouldn’t have troubled you. She may be at the 
gawky stage, but she makes plenty of friends.” 

Mrs. Leighton could be very impartial in her judg- 
ments. 


20 


The Story Book Girls 

But Mabel was hurt. She preserved a superior air, 
which became extremely annoying to the girls. 

The greatest crime that she committed was when 
Jean, amiably engaging her in conversation in the old 
way, asked, “And how was Adelaide Maud dressed?’’ 

Mabel turned in a very studied manner and stared past 
Jean and every one. 

“I don’t think I observed Adelaide Maud,” she 
said. 

This was more than human beings could stand. 

“I think it’s most ir — ir ” 

“Oh, find the word first and talk afterwards,” said Mabel 
grandly. “You kids get on one’s nerves.” 

“Kids — nerves,” cried Jean faintly. “I think Mabel 
is taking brain fever.” 

Elma left the room abruptly, much on the verge of 
tears, and she tried to find solace in her dictionary. 
The word was “irrelevant” — yet did not seem to fit 
the occasion at all. What would Miss Annie or Miss 
Grace do, if a sister had turned old and strange in a few 
days, like that ? What would mother have done ? 
Mother’s sisters always complimented each other when 
they met. They never quarrelled. Of course they never 
could have quarrelled. “Forgive and forget” Aunt 
Katharine once had said had always been their motto. 
Forgiving seemed very easy — but forgetting with 
Adelaide Maud in the question — what an impossibility! 
Miss Annie had an axiom that when you felt worried 
about one matter the correct thing to do was to think 
about another. Elma thought and thought, but every- 
thing worked round to the traitorous remark of Mabel’s 
about Adelaide Maud. It seemed as though her head 


The Flower Show Ticket 


29 


could hold nothing else but that one idea about Ade- 
laide Maud. Until suddenly it dawned on her that 
it was really rather fine and grand of Mabel that she 
should talk in this negligent manner of any one so 
magnificent. This reflection gave her the greatest 
possible comfort. To be condescending, even in a 
mere frame of mind, to the Story Book Girls seemed 
like the swineherd becoming a prince. Elma began 
to think how jolly it would be to hear Mabel saying 
“You know, my dear Helen, I don’t think you ought 
to wear heliotrope, it hardly suits you.” There was 
something very delicious in having Mabel starchy and 
proud after all. Elma heard her coming upstairs to 
her bedroom to dress for dinner, just then. The fall 
of the footsteps seemed to suggest that some of the 
starchiness had departed from Mabel. Much of the 
quality of sympathy which had produced such a person 
as Miss Grace, was to be found in Elma. Jean and 
Betty had hardened their two little hearts to the con- 
sistency of flint over the behaviour of Mabel, but the 
mere fact that Elma thought her footsteps seemed to 
flag and become tired roused her to chivalrous eagerness 
towards making it up. She went into Mabel’s room 
and sat on the window seat. It was a long, low, pleasant 
couch let into a wide window looking on the lawn 
and gardens at the front of the house. The sun poured 
in on Elma, who forgot the habits of upright behaviour 
which she exhibited at Miss Annie’s, and sprawled 
there with her fingers on the cord of the blind. 

Mabel drew her hatpins out of fair braids in an 
admiring yet disconsolate manner. She took a hand 
glass and had first a side view, then a back view of the 


30 


The Story Book Girls 

new effect, patted little stray locks into place, and 
ruffled out others. 

“What’s up, Mabs, you don’t look en-thusiastic,” 
asked Elma. 

“It’s papa. After my lovely day too. He wants me 
to play that Mozart thing with Betty to-night. Mozart 
and Betty! Isn’t it stale? I hate Mozart, and I 
hate drumming away at silly things with Betty.” A 
very discontented sigh accompanied these remarks. 

“I really don’t see why I should always be tacked on 
to Betty or to Jean or you. I haven’t a minute to 
myself.” 

“Oh, Mabs, you’ve had a lovely day!” 

The words broke out in an accusing manner. Elma 
had certainly intended to comfort Mabel, yet immedi- 
ately began by expostulating with her. 

Mabel turned round, with her seventeenth birth- 
day present, a fine silver-backed brush, in her hand. 

*‘Have I had a lovely day, have I?” she asked. 
“I’ve had simply nothing of the kind. Jean went on 
so about not going that Cousin Harry seemed to 
think I had injured her. He made me feel like a criminal 
all afternoon. These navy men like lots of girls round 
them. One or two more don’t make the difference to 
them that it makes to us. At least it’s a different kind 
of difference. A nice one. I think it was abominable 
of him. My first chance — and to spoil it, all because of 
Jean ! It wasn’t fair of her.” 

Elma began to feel her reason rocking with the sudden 
justice of this new argument. 

“A minute ago, I thought it wasn’t fair of you,” 
she said reflectively. “I can see it will be awfully 


The Flower Show Ticket 


31 


hard to get us all peacefully grown up. Betty will 
have the best of it. I shall simply give in to her right 
along the line. I can see that. I really couldn’t stand 
the worry of it.” 

“I suppose you wouldn’t have gone to the flower 
show without Jean?” asked Mabel in rather a scornful 
way. 

^‘Good gracious, no,” said Elma simply. “I should 
have presented her with the one and only ticket, just for 
the sake of peace.” 

“That’s a rotten, weak way to behave,” said Mabel, 
with a touch of Cuthbert’s best manner. 

“I know. I don’t mean that you should have given 
her the ticket. You weren’t made to be bullied. I 
was. I feel it in my bones every time any one is horrid 
to me.” 

“I’m getting tired of giving up to others,” said Mabel, ^ 
still on her determined tack. “You can’t think what 
it has been during these years. I mustn’t do this and 
that because of the children. It’s always been like 
that. And now when I’m longing to go to dances and 
balls, I’ve got to go right off after dinner and play 
Mozart with Betty. It’s all very well for papa, he 
hasn’t had the work I’ve had. If I play now, I want 
to play something better than a tum-tum accompani- 
ment.” 

“Mozart isn’t tum-tum,” said Elma, “and papa 
has been listening to us all these years. It must have 
been very trying.” 

“Well, all I can say is that, at his time of life, he 
ought to be saved from hearing Betty scrape on her 
fiddle every night as she does nowadays. Instead, 


32 The Story Book Girls 

you would think he hadn’t had one musical daughter, he’s 
so keen on the latest.” 

“Miss Annie says it never does to be selfish,” said 
Elma gravely. “I think that’s being selfish, the way you 
talk.” 

Mabel stopped at the unclasping of her waist-belt. 

“Miss Annie! Well, I like that! Don’t you know 
there isn’t so selfish a person in the world as Miss Annie! 
I’ve heard people say it.” 

She nodded with two pins in her mouth, then released 
them as she went on. 

“Miss Annie made up her mind to lie on a nice bed 
and have Miss Grace wait on her. And she’s done it. 
There’s nothing succeeds like success.” Mabel nodded 
her head with the wisdom of centuries. 

“Oh, Mabs, how can you?” Elma was dreadfully 
shocked. A vision of poor martyred Miss Annie with 
“something internal” being supposed to like what was 
invariably referred to in that household as “the bed 
of pain,” to have conferred on herself this dreadful 
thing from choice and wilfulness, this vision was an 
appalling one. 

“How can you say such things of Miss Annie? Who 
would ever go to bed for all these years, for the pleasure 
of the thing?” 

“I would,” said Mabel. “Yes, at the present moment, 
I would. I should like to have something very pathetic 
happen to me, so that I should be obliged to lie in bed 
like Miss Annie, and have somebody nice and sympathetic 
come in and stroke my hand! Cousin Harry, for in- 
stance. He can look so kind and be so comforting 
when he likes. But oh ! Elma, he was a beast to-day.” 


The Flower Show Ticket 


33 

The truth was out at last. Mabel sat suddenly on 
the couch beside Elma, and burst into tears. 

“I think I hate being grown up/’ she said, ‘^if people 
treat you in that stiff severe way. Nobody ever did it 
before — ever.” 

Elma stroked and stroked her hand. “The Leighton 
lump,” as they interpreted the slightly hysterical 
quality which made each girl cry when the other began, 
rose in riotous disobedience in her throat, and strangled 
any further effort at consolation. 

“Why don’t you say something,” wailed Mabel. 

“I’m trying not to cry too,” at last said Elma. 

Then they both laughed. 

“I should go right to Cousin Harry and tell him all 
about it,” Elma managed to counsel at last. “I 
thought you were a beast — but it’s awfully hard on you. 
It’s awfully hard on all of us — having sisters.” 

“Yes, isn’t it,” groaned Mabel. 

“Harry is very understanding. Almost as understanding 
as papa is.” 

“Papa! Do you think papa understands?” 

“Papa understands everything,” said Elma. Then 
a very loyal recollection of the afternoon they had 
spent in the cheery presence of Mrs. Leighton beset 
her. “Also mamma, I think she’s a duck,” said Elma. 


D 


CHAPTER IV 


Cuthbert 

There was a tremendous scurry after this to allow 
of the four getting ready in time for dinner. Mabel 
and Elma regained high spirits after their confidences, 
and everybody seemed in a better key. 

Mrs. Leighton came in to inquire of Mabel why 
Cuthbert had not returned. Cuthbert, by some years 
the eldest of the family, had attained great brilliance 
as a medical student, and now worked at pathology 
in order to qualify as a specialist. His studies kept 
him intermittently at home, but to-day he had been 
down early from town and had gone out bicycling 
with George Maclean. 

‘‘Cuthbert!” exclaimed Mabel. “Why, I can’t think 
— why, where’s Cuthbert ? ” 

“Why, yes, where’s Cuthbert?” said Jean. 

Their minute differences had engaged their minds 
so fully, that no one had really begun to wonder about 
Cuthbert until that moment. 

“He is always in such good time,” said Mrs. Leighton 
in a puzzled way. “Didn’t he say to any one that he would 
be late?” 

No one knew anything about him. They speculated, 
and collected at the dinner-table still speculating. 

34 


Cuthbert 


35 


Even Cousin Harry knew nothing of him, but that, 
of course, was because of the flower show. While 
the meal was in progress, Mr. Maclean appeared quietly 
in the room. He had prepared a little speech for Mrs. 
Leighton, but it died on his lips as he saw her face. 
It was a curious thing, as they afterwards reflected, 
that Mr. Maclean went on speaking to Mrs. Leighton 
as though she knew of everything that had happened 
to Cuthbert. 

‘‘He is all right, Mrs. Leighton, but he wouldn’t let 
me bring him in until I told you that he was all right.” 

“Bring him in ” 

It seemed to the Leightons that Mr. Maclean had 
been standing all his life in their dining-room saying that 
Cuthbert was all right, but wouldn’t be “brought in.” 

Mr. Leighton put down his table napkin in a method- 
ical manner. 

“You’d better come with me and see him, Lucy,” he 
said to his wife. 

Nothing could have more alarmed the girls. On 
no occasion had Mr. Leighton ever referred to his wife 
as Lucy. 

“Oh, Cuthbert must be dead,” cried Betty. 

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Leighton, with a white face. 
“Where is Harry?” 

Harry had slipped out after a direct glance from 
Mr. Maclean, and was at that moment assisting two 
doctors to lift Cuthbert from a carriage. 

“Look here, you kids,” sang out Cuthbert, “I’ve 
only broken a rib or two. You needn’t look scared. 
I shall allow you to nurse me. You won’t be dull, I 
can tell you.” 


36 The Story Book Girls 

Mrs. Leighton gave a sharp little gasp. Her face 
looked drawn and only half its size. 

“Oh, Cuthbert/’ she said. 

“I won’t move,” said Cuthbert, “till you stop 
being anxious about me. Maclean, you are a bit of 
an idiot — look how you’ve frightened her ! ” 

Elma found Betty in partial hysterics in the dining- 
room with Jean hanging over her in a corresponding 
condition. 

“I say, you two,” she said in a disgusted manner. 
“You’ll frighten mother more than ever. Get up 
and don’t be idiots.” 

“You’re as pale as death yourself,” cried Jean hotly. 

“ Oh — am I,” said Elma in an almost pleased voice. 
She longed, to go and see the effect for herself, but the 
condition of Betty prevented her. 

“Well, it’s our first shock,” she said in an important 
manner. “I never felt awjul like this before.” 

“I’m sure Cuthbert will die,” cried Betty. 

“Oh, don’t.” Elma turned on her fiercely. “Why 
do you say such dreadful things.” 

“If you think he will die, Betty, he will die,” sobbed 
Jean. 

“Oh, Jean, Jean, do brace up,” said Elma. “I 
don’t want to cry, and every minute I’m getting nearer 
it. Harry says it’s just a knock on the ribs and the navy 
men don’t even go to bed for that.” 

“Liar,” sobbed Betty, “Cuthbert isn’t a softy.” 

“Well, of course, if you want him to be bad, I can’t 
help it,” said Elma. “I’m off to see where Mabel is.” 

Mabel — well this was just where the magnificence 
of Mabel asserted itself. She had done a thing which 


Cuthbert 


37 


not one of the people who were arranging about getting 
Cuthbert upstairs and into bed had thought of. At 
the first sight of his white face and some blankets 
with which he had been padded into a carriage, after 
the accident which had thrown him from his bicycle and 
broken three ribs, Mabel turned and went upstairs. 
She put everything out of the way for his being carried 
across the room, and finally tugged his bed into a 
convenient place for his being laid there. She dragged 
back quilts and procured more pillows, so that when 
Cuthbert finally reclined there he was eminently com- 
fortable. 

“You’ll have to haul out my bed, it’s in a corner,” 
he had sung out as they carried him in, and there 
was the bed already prepared for him, and Mabel with 
an extra pillow in her arms. 

“Good old Mabs,” said Cuthbert. “I promote you 
to staff nurse on the spot.” 

Mabel was more scared than any one, not knowing 
yet about the ribs or Cousin Harry’s tale of the navy 
men who went about with broken ones and rather 
enjoyed the experience. She was so scared that it 
seemed easy to stand quiet and be perfectly dignified. 

“Come, Mabs dear, and help me to look for bandages. 
The doctor wants one good big one,” said the recovered 
voice of Mrs. Leighton. 

Mr. Leighton went about stirring up everybody 
to doing things. He was very angry with Betty and 
Jean. “Any one can sit crying in a corner,” he declared, 
“and we may be so glad it’s no worse.” 

“It’s our first shock,” said Betty, who had rather 
admired the sentiment of that speech of Lima’s. 


38 The Story Book Girls 

Mr. Leighton could not help smiling a trifle. 

“Well/’ he exclaimed kindly, “we don’t want to 
get accustomed to them. I should really much rather 
you would behave properly this time. You might 
take a lesson from Mabel.” 

Nobody knew till then what a brick Mabel had been. 
To have their father commend them like that, the girls 
would stand on their heads. Lucky Mabel. There 

was some merit after all in being the eldest. One 
knew evidently what to do in an emergency. The 
truth was that Mabel’s temperament was so nicely 
balanced that she could act as well as think, with 

promptitude. She had always admired dignity and 
what Mr. Leighton called “efficiency,” whereas Jean 
and Betty believed most in the deep feelings of people 
who squealed the loudest. 

“Nobody knows the agony this is to me,” Jean 

exclaimed in a tragic voice. “Feel my heart, it’s 

beating so.” 

“Go and feel Mabel’s,” said Elma. “I expect it’s 
thumping as hard as yours. And she got Cuthbert’s 
bed ready. She really is the leader of this family. 
There’s something more in it than putting up one’s 
hair.” 

The doctors came down much more merrily than 
they went up, and joined in the dining-room in coffee 
and dessert while Harry stayed with the patient. 

Mr. Leighton seemed very deeply moved. The thing 
had hurt him more than he ventured to say. A remem- 
brance of the white look on his son’s face, the appear- 
ance of the huddled figure in the cab, and the anxiety of 
not knowing for a few moments how bad the injury might 


Cuthbert 


39 


be, had given him a great shock. His children were 
so deeply a part of his life, their welfare of so much 
more consequence than his own, that it seemed dread- 
ful to him that his splendid manly young son had 
been suddenly hurt — perhaps beyond remedy. Mrs. 
Leighton used to remark that she had always been 
very thankful that none of her children had ever been 
dangerously ill, her husband suffered so acutely from 
even a trifling illness undergone by one of them. Now 
she gazed at him rather anxiously. 

Mr. Maclean told them at last how it had happened. 
Cuthbert had done something rather heroic. Mr. 
Maclean recounted it, it seemed to Elma, in the tone 
of a man who thought very little of the reckless way 
in which Cuthbert had risked his life, until she dis- 
covered afterwards that he as well as Cuthbert had made 
a dash to the rescue. 

It was a case of a runaway bicycle, with no brakes 
working, and a girl on it, terror-stricken, trying to 
evade death on the Long Hill. Cuthbert had rushed 
down to her. Cuthbert had gripped the saddle, and 
was putting some strength into his brakes, and actually 
reaching nearly a full stop, when the girl swayed and 
fainted. They were both thrown, but the girl was 
quite unhurt. Something had hit Cuthbert on the 
side and broken three ribs. 

Mabel stared straight at Mr. Maclean. 

“Where were you?” she asked. 

Mr. Maclean looked gravely at her. “I was some- 
where about,” he said with unnecessary vagueness. 

“Then you tried to save the girl too,” said Elma with 
immediate conviction. She greatly admired Mr. Maclean, 


40 


The Story Book Girls 

and resented the manner of Mabel’s question. ‘^How 
beautiful of you both,” she exclaimed enthusiasti- 
cally. 

Mr. Maclean seemed a little annoyed. 

“I nearly ran into them,” he growled. “Cuthbert 
was the man who did the clean neat thing.” 

Mabel stirred her coffee with a dainty air, and then 
she looked provokingly at Mr. Maclean. In some 
way she made Elma believe that she did not credit 
that he could be valorous like Cuthbert. 

“I think it was most grand-iloquent of you,” Elma said 
to Mr. Maclean by way of recompense. 

The word saved the situation. Where doctors’ assur- 
ances had not cleared anxiety from the brow of Mr. Leigh- 
ton, nor restored the placidity which with Mrs. Leighton 
was habitual, the genuine laugh which followed Lima’s 
effort accomplished everything. 

“I shall go right up and tell Cuthbert,” said Jean. 

“No, you won’t! Cuthbert mustn’t laugh,” said Mrs. 
Leighton hurriedly. 

“Oh, mummy,” said poor Elma. 

Nobody laughed later, however, when all four girls 
were tucked in bed and not one of them could sleep. 
Betty in particular was in a nervous feverish condition 
which alarmed Elma. She would have gone to her 
mother’s room to ask advice, except for Mabel’s great 
indication of courage that afternoon, and the certainty 
that Mabel and Jean were both sensibly fast asleep 
in the next room. She took Betty into her own bed 
and petted her like a baby. On windy nights, Betty 
never could sleep, and had always gone to Elma like a 
chicken to its mother to hide her head and shut out 


Cuthbert 


41 


the shrieking and whistling which so unnerved her. 
But to-night, nothing could shut out the fear which 
had suddenly assailed her that everybody died sooner or 
later, and Cuthbert might have died that day. She lay 
and wept on Elma’s shoulder. 

At last the door moved gently and Mrs. Leighton 
came in. The moon shone on her white hair, and made 
her face seem particularly gentle and lovely. 

“I’ve been scolding Mabel and Jean for talking in bed, 
she said, “and now I hear you two at it.” 

“Oh, mummy,” replied Elma, “I’m so glad you’ve 
come. You don’t know how empty and dreadful we 
feel. We never thought before of Cuthbert’s dying. 
And Betty says you and papa might die — and none 
of us could p-possibly bear to live.” 

She began to cry gently at last. 

“I can’t have four girls in one house all crying,” said 
Mrs. Leighton; “I really can’t stand it, you know.” 

“What — are Mabel and Jean crying?” asked Elma 
tearfully, yet hopefully. “Well, that’s one comfort 
anyway.” 

Mrs. Leighton sat down by their bed. Long years 
afterwards Elma remembered the tones of her mother’s 
voice and the quiet wonderful peace that entered her 
own mind at the confident words which Mrs. Leighton 
spoke to them then. 

“I thought you might be feeling like that,” she 
said; “I did once also, long ago, when my father turned 
very ill, until I learned what I’m going to tell you now. 
We aren’t here just to enjoy ourselves, or that 
would be an easy business, would it not? We are here 
to get what Cuthbert calls a few kicks now and again, 


42 


The Story Book Girls 

to suffer a little, above all to remember that our father 
or our mother isn’t the only loving parent we possess. 
What is the use of being taught to be devoted to good- 
ness and truth, if one doesn’t believe that goodness 
and truth are higher than anything, higher than human 
trouble? If you lost Cuthbert or me or papa, there 
is always that strong presence ready to hold you.” 

“Oh, mummy,” sobbed Betty, “there seems nothing like 
holding your hand.” 

Mrs. Leighton stroked Betty’s very softly. 

“Would you like a little piece of news?” she asked. 

“We would,” said Elma. 

“The only person who is asleep in this household — fast 
asleep, is — Cuthbert.” 

“O — oh!” 

Elma could not help laughing. 

“And another thing,” said Mrs. Leighton. “Didn’t 
you notice? Not one of my girls asked a single question 
about the girl whom Cuthbert saved.” 

“How funny!” 

Betty’s sobs became much dimmer. 

“Do you know who she was?” asked Mrs. Leigh- 
ton. 

“No,” chimed both. 

‘Well, I don’t know her name,” said Mrs. Leighton. 
She rose and moved towards the door. “But I know one 
thing.” She opened the door softly. 

Elma and Betty sat up dry-eyed in bed. 

“Remember what I said to you to-night,” Mrs. 
Leighton said, “and don’t be very ungrateful for all 
the happiness you’ve known, and little cowards when 
the frightening time comes. Promise me.” 


Cuthbert 


43 


They promised. 

She prepared to draw the door quietly behind her. 

‘‘She is staying with the Story Books, whispered Mrs. 
Leighton. Then she closed the door. 


CHAPTER V 


“The Story Books’’ Call 

Mabel was sitting with Cuthbert when the Story Books 
called. 

They really did call. 

And nothing could have been more unpropitious. 

First, they called very early in the afternoon, just 
when Betty, with her arms full of matting for her rabbits, 
rushed out at the front door. She nearly ran into 
them. The matting slipped from her arms, and she 
stood spell-bound, gazing at the Story Books. Mrs. 
Dudgeon was there, looking half a size larger than any 
ordinary person. An osprey waved luxuriantly in a 
mauve toque, and her black dress bristled with grandeur. 
She produced a lorgnette and looked through it severely 
at Betty. Betty became half the size of an ordinary 
mortal. 

Adelaide Maud was with Mrs. Dudgeon. 

Adelaide Maud was in blue. 

Adelaide Maud seemed stiff and bored. 

“Is your mamma at home?’’ Mrs. Dudgeon asked. 

Betty kicked the matting out of the way in a surreptitious 
manner. 

“Oh, please come in,” she said shyly. 

It was tragic that of all moments in one’s life the 
44 


“ The Story Books ” Call 


45 


Dudgeons should have come when Betty happened to 
be flying out, and they had not even had time to ring for 
Bertha, who, as parlour-maid, had really irreproachable 
showing-in manners. 

Betty tripped over a mat on her way to the drawing- 
room. Betty showed them in without a word of warn- 
ing. Jean was singing at the piano — atrociously. 
Jean might know that she oughtn’t to sing till her voice 
was developed. Elma was dusting photographs. 

Nothing could have been more tragic. 

The girls melted from the room, and left Mrs. Dudgeon 
and Adelaide Maud in the centre of it, stranded, star- 
ing. 

“What an odd family,” said Mrs. Dudgeon stiffly. 

Adelaide Maud never answered. 

The Leightons rushed frantically to other parts of the 
house. 

The second tragedy occurred. 

Mrs. Leighton utterly refused to change her quiet 
afternoon dress for another in which to receive Mrs. 
Dudgeon. She went to the drawing-room as she was. 

They ran to Cuthbert’s room to tell him about it. 
Cuthbert seemed rather excited when he asked which 
“Story Book.” Elma said, “Oh, you know, the one,” 
and he concluded she meant Theodore, who did not 
interest him at all. 

“Why couldn’t you stay and talk to them?” he 
asked. “They wouldn’t eat you. Who cares what 
you have on? The mater is quite right. She is just 
as nice in a morning costume as old Dudgeon in her war 
paint. You think too much of clothes, you kids.” 

“Yet you like to see us nicely dressed,” wailed Jean. 


46 The Story Book Girls 

“Of course I do. Mabel in that blue thing is a 
dream.” 

Mabel looked at him gratefully. 

“Oh; if only Mabel had been sitting there embroider- 
ing, in her blue gown, and Bertha had shown them 
ceremoniously in ! How lovely it would have been ! ” 
said Elma. 

“I couldn’t have worn my blue,” said Mabel with a 
conscience-stricken look. “You know why.” 

“ Oh, Mabel — the rucking ! How unfortunate ! ” 

“It never dawned on us that we should ever know 
them.” 

Cuthbert looked from one to another. 

“What on earth have you been up to now?” he asked 
suspiciously. 

“Mabel got her dress made the same as Adelaide 
Maud’s,” said Betty accusingly. She rather liked 
airing Mabel’s mistakes just then, after having been so 
sat upon for her own. 

“Well, it’s a good thing that Adelaide Maud, as you 
call her, won’t ever come near you,” Cuthbert remarked 
in a savage voice. 

“But it’s Adelaide Maud who’s in the drawing- 
room,” said Elma. 

Cuthbert drew in his breath sharply. 

“Oh, Cuthbert, you aren’t well.” 

“It’s the bandage,” he said. “Montgomery is a 
bit of an idiot about bandaging. I told him so. Doesn’t 
give a fellow room to breathe.” 

He became testy in his manner. 

“You oughtn’t to have all run away like that, like a 
lot of children. Old Dudgeon will be sniffing round to 


“ The Story Books ” Call 47 

see how much money there is in our furniture, and cursing 
herself for having to call.^’ 

“Adelaide Maud was awfully stiff,” sighed Elma. 

“Our furniture can bear inspection,” said Mabel with 
dignity. “The Dudgeons may have money, but papa 
has taste.” 

“Yes, thank goodness,” said Cuthbert. “They 
can’t insult us on that point. This beastly side of 
mine ! Why can’t we go downstairs, Mabel, and tell 
them what we think of ’em ? ” 

“I’m longing to, but terrified,” said Mabel. “It’s 
because we’ve admired them so and talked about them so 
much.” 

“Adelaide Maud wouldn’t know you from the furni- 
ture,” said Jean. “You may spare yourself the agony 
of wanting to see her. I think they might be nice 
when we’ve been neighbours in a kind of way for so 
long.” 

“Well — they’re having a good old chat with the 
mater at least,” said Cuthbert. 

“I haven’t confidence in mummy,” said Jean. “I 
can hear her, can’t you? Instead of talking about the 
flower show or the boat races, or something dashing of 
that sort, she will be saying 

“Oh, I know,” said Mabel. “When Elma was a 
baby — or was it when Elma was a baby — yes it was, 
and saying how cute Cuthbert was when he was five years 
old ” 

“If she does,” shouted Cuthbert, “Oh, mother mine, 
if you do that ! ” He shook his fist at the open door. 

A sound of voices approaching a shut one downstairs 
came to their ears. Each 'girl stole nimbly and silently 


48 The Story Book Girls 

out and took up a position where she could see safely 
through the banisters. First came the mauve toque, 
with its white osprey quite graciously animated, then 
a blue and wide one in turquoise which from that fore- 
shortened view completely hid the shimmering gold of 
the hair of Adelaide Maud. Mrs. Leighton was weirdly 
self-possessed, it seemed to the excited onlookers. She 
had rung for Bertha, who held the door open now in 
quite the right attitude. Good old Bertha. Mrs. 
Dudgeon was condescendingly remarking, “I’m so 
sorry your little girls ran away!” 

“Little girls!” breathed four stricken figures at the 
banisters. 

Adelaide Maud said, “Yes, and I did so want to meet 
them. I hear they are very musical.” 

“Musical!” groaned Mabel. 

“She just said that to be polite — isn’t it awful?” 
whispered Jean. 

“Hush.” 

“ Once more, our best thanks to your son.” 

Mrs. Leighton answered as though she hadn’t minded 
a bit that Cuthbert had been nearly killed the day 
before. 

“So good of you to call,” said she. 

“Oh,” cried Elma, with her head on the banister 
rail, after the door shut, “I hate society, don’t you, 
mummy.” 

“I think you’re very badly behaved, all of you, listen- 
ing there like a lot of babies,” said Mrs. Leighton. 

“Come and tell your little girls all about it,” cried Jean 
sarcastically. 

Mrs. Leighton smiled as she toiled upstairs. 


“ The Story Books ” Call 


49 


“It ought to be a lesson to you. Haven’t I often 
told you that listeners hear no good of themselves?” 
she exclaimed. 

“Oh, mummy, we are musical,” reminded Mabel 
softly. “Think of that terrific compliment!” 

Their mother seemed to have more on her mind than 
she would tell them. She puffed gently into Cuthbert’s 
room. 

“These stairs are getting too much for me,” she said. 

“Well, mater,” asked Cuthbert in an interrogating 
way. 

“Well, Cuthbert, they are very grateful to you,” she 
said. 

He lay back on his pillows. 

“Don’t I know that patronizing gratitude,” he said. 
It seemed as though they had all suddenly determined 
to be down on the Dudgeons. His face appeared hard 
and very determined. He had the fine forehead which 
so distinguished his father, with the same clear-cut 
features and a chin of which the outline was strong and 
yet frankly boyish. He had a patient, insistent way of 
looking out of his eyes. It had often the effect of 
wresting remarks from people who imagined they had noth- 
ing to say. 

This time, Mrs. Leighton, noting that familiar appeal 
in his eyes, was drawn to discussing the Dudgeons. 

“Mrs. Dudgeon was very nice; she said several very 
nice things about you and us. She says that Mr. Dud- 
geon has always had a great respect for your father. He 
knows what he has done in connection with the Anti- 
quarian Society and so on. Miss Dudgeon was very 
quiet.” 


E 


50 The Story Book Girls 

“Stiff little thing,’’ said Jean, with her head in the 
air. 

“She was very nice,” said Mrs. Leighton. There 
was a softness in her voice which arrested the flippancy 
of the girls. “I don’t know when I have met a 
girl I liked so much.” 

“Good old Adelaide Maud,” cried Jean. 

A flush ran up Cuthbert’s pale determined face. It 
took some of the hardness out of it. 

“Did she condescend to ask for me?” he asked 
abruptly. “ Or pretend that she knew me at all?” 

“She never said a word about you,” said his mother, 
“but ” 

“But — what a lot there may be in a but,” said Jean. 

“She looked most sympathetic,” said Mrs. Leighton 
lamely. Cuthbert moved impatiently. 

“What silly affairs afternoon calls must be,” said he. 

“Miss Steven — the girl you ran away with — isn’t well 
to-day, and they are rather anxious about her. She is 
very upset, but wanted to come and tell you how much she 
thanked you.” 

“Oh, lor,” said Cuthbert, “what a time I shall have 
when I’m well. I shall go abroad, I think.” 

Lima gazed at him with superb devotion. He seemed 
such a man — to be careless of so much appreciation, and 
from the Story Books too ! Cuthbert appeared very dis- 
contented. 

“Oh, these people,! ” he exclaimed. “They call and 
thank one as they would their gardener if he had hap- 
pened to pull one of ’em out of a pond. It’s the same 
thing, mummy! They never intend to be really friendly, 
you know.” 


“The Story Books ” Call 


51 

Elma slipped downstairs and entered the drawing- 
room once more. A faint perfume (was it “Ideal” 
or “Sweet Pea Blossom”?) might be discerned. A 
Liberty cushion had been decidedly rumpled where Mrs. 
Leighton would be bound to place Mrs. Dudgeon. 
Where had Adelaide Maud, the goddess of smartness and 
good breeding, located herself ? Elma gave a small 
scream of rapture. On the bend of the couch where the 
upholstering ran into a convenient groove for hiding 
things, she found a little handkerchief. It was of very 
delicate cambric, finely embroidered. Elma’s first 
terror, that it might be Mrs. Dudgeon’s, was dispelled by 
the magic letters of “Helen” sewn in heliotrope across 
a corner. It struck her as doubtful taste in one so com- 
plete as Adelaide Maud that she should carry heliotrope 
embroidery along with a blue gown. She held her prize 
in front of her. 

“Now,” said she deliberately, “I shall find out 
whether it is ‘Ideal’ or ‘Sweet Pea.’” 

She sniffed at the handkerchief in an awe-stricken 
manner. The enervating news was thus conveyed to 
her — Adelaide Maud put no scent on her handkerchiefs. 

This was disappointing, but a hint in smartness not 
to be disobeyed. Mrs. Dudgeon must have been the 
“Ideal” person. Elma rather hoped that Hermione 
used scent. This would provide a loophole for herself 
anyhow. But Mabel would be obliged to deny herself 
that luxury. 

Elma sat down on the couch with the handkerchief, 
and looked at the dear old drawing-room with new eyes. 
She would not take that depressing view of the people 
upstairs with regard to the Story Books. She was 


52 The Story Book Girls 

Adelaide Maud and was “reviewing the habitation’’ of 
“these Leighton children” for the first time. 

“Dear me,” said Adelaide Maud, “who is that sweet 
thing in the silver frame?” 

“Oh,” said Mother Leighton, “that’s Mabel, my 
eldest.” 

Then Adelaide Maud would be sure to say with a 
refined amount of rapture, “Oh, is that Mabel? I 
have heard how pretty she is, from Mr. Maclean.” 

Then mother — oh no, one must leave mother out of 
this conversation. She would have been so certain to 
explain that Mabel was not pretty at all. 

Elma sat with her elbows out and her hands pre- 
sumably resting on air. “Never lean your elbows on 
your hips, girls,” Miss Stanton, head of deportment, 
informed them in school. “Get your shoulder muscles 
into order for holding yourself gracefully.” One could 
only imagine Adelaide Maud with a faultless deport- 
ment. 

Elma carried the little handkerchief distractedly to 
her lips, then was appalled at the desecration. 

Oh — and yet how lovely ! It was really Adelaide 
Maud’s ! 

She tenderly folded it. 

How distinguished the drawing-room appeared! How 
delightful to have had a father who made no mis- 
takes in the choice of furniture 1 Cuthbert had said 
so. She could almost imagine that the mauve toque 
must have bowed before the Louis Seize clock and 
acknowledged the Cardinal Wolsey chair. It did not 
occur to her to think that Mrs. Dudgeon might size up 
the whole appearance of that charming room in a request 


“ The Story Books ” Call 


for pillars and Georgian mirrors, and beaded-work 
cushions. It is not given to every one to see so far as 
this, however, and Elma — as Miss Dudgeon for the 
afternoon — complimented her imaginary hosts on every- 
thing. As a wind-up Miss Dudgeon asked Mrs. 
Leighton particularly if her third daughter might come 
to tea with Hermione. 

“So sweet of you to think of it,” said the imaginary 
Mrs. Leighton, once more in working order. 

Out of these dreams emerged Elma. Some one was 
calling her abruptly. 

“Coming,” she shrieked wildly, and clutched the 
handkerchief. 

She kept it till she got to Cuthbert. It seemed to 
her that he, as an invalid, might be allowed a bit of a treat 
and a secret all to himself. 

“Adelaide Maud left her handkerchief,” she said. 
“We shall have to call to return it.” 

He gazed at the bit of cambric. 

“Good gracious, is that what you girls dry your eyes 
on?” 

He took it, and looked at it very coldly and critically. 

“Thank you,” he said calmly. 

“Oh, Cuthbert,” she exclaimed with round eyes, “you 
won’t keep it, will you ? ” 

“I shall return it, to the owner, some day, when she 
deserves it,” said the hero of yesterday, with a number of 
pauses between each phrase. “ Don’t say a word, chucky, 
will you not?” 

“I won’t,” said Elma honourably, yet deeply puzzled. 

Imaginary people were the best companions after all. 
They did exactly what one expected them to do. 


54 


The Story Book Girls 

It seemed rather selfish that Cuthbert should hang on 
to the handkerchief. But of course they would never 
have even seen it had it not been for the accident. 

She surrendered all ownership at the thought, and then 
gladly poured tea for the domineering Cuthbert. 

“You are a decent little soul, Elma,” said he. 

“And you are very extra-asperating,’^ said Elma. 


CHAPTER VI 


The Mayonnaise 

The girls gave a party to celebrate the recovery of 
Cuthbert. They were allowed to do this on one con- 
dition, that they made everything for it themselves. 

This was Mr. Leighton’s idea, and it found rapturous 
approval in the ranks of the family, and immediate 
rebellion in the heart of Mrs. Leighton. It was her 
one obstinacy that she should retain full hold of the 
reins of housekeeping. Once let a lot of girls into the 
kitchen, and where are you ! 

“Once let a lot of girls grow up with no kind of 
responsibility in life, and where are you then?” asked 
Mr. Leighton. “I don’t want my girls to drift. No 
man is really healthy unless he is striving after some- 
thing, if it’s only after finding a new kind of beetle. 
I don’t see how a girl can be healthy without a definite 
occupation.” 

“They make their beds, and they have their music,” 
sighed Mrs., Leighton. “Girls in my day didn’t inter- 
fere with the housekeeping.” 

“I’ve thought about their music,” said Mr. Leigh- 
ton. “I’m glad they have it. But it isn’t life, you 
know. A drawing-room accomplishment isn’t life. I 
want them to be equipped all round. Not just by 
taking classes either. Classes end by making people 

55 


56 The Story Book Girls 

willing to be taught, but the experiences of life make 
them very swift to learn. We can’t have them sitting 
dreaming about husbands for ever. Dreams and 
ideals are all very well, but one scamps the realities if 
one goes on at them too long. Elma means to marry 
a duke, you know. Isn’t it much better that in the mean- 
time she should learn to make a salad?” 

“The servants will be so cross,” said Mrs. Leighton. 
She invariably saw readily enough where she must 
give in, but on these occasions she never gave in 
except with outward great unwillingness. 

“Oh, perhaps not,” said Mr. Leighton. “They 
have dull enough lives themselves. I’m sure it will 
be rather fun for them to see Mabel making cakes.” 

“Mabel can’t make cakes,” exclaimed Mrs. Leigh- 
ton. Her professional talents were really being ques- 
tioned here. Throughout the length and breadth of 
the country, nobody made cakes like Mrs. Leighton. 

Mr. Leighton grew a little bit testy. 

“You know, my dear, if this house were a business 
concern it would be your duty to take your eldest 
daughter into partnership at this stage. As it is, you 
seem to want to keep her out for ever.” 

Mrs. Leighton sighed heavily. 

“That’s just it, John,” said she; “I want to keep 
her out for ever. I want them all to remain little 
children, and myself being mother to them. Since 
Mabel got her hair up — already it’s different. I feel 
in an underhand sort of way that I’m being run by 
my own daughter, I really do.” 

“More like by your own son,” said Mr. Leighton. 
“The way you give in to that boy is a disgrace.” 


The Mayonnaise 57 

^‘Oh, Cuthbert’s different,” said Mrs. Leighton 
brightly. 

“Poor Mabel,” smiled Mr. Leighton. 

It was an old subject with them, thrashed out again 
and again, ever since Cuthbert as a rather spoiled child 
of seven had had his little nose put out of joint by the 
first arrival of girls in the imperious person of Mabel. 
Mrs. Leighton had always felt a little grieved with 
the absurdly rapid manner in which Mr. Leighton’s 
affections had gone over to Mabel. 

“In any case, try them with the party,” said he. 
“The only thing that can happen is for the cook to 
give notice.” 

“And I shall have to get another one of course.” 
Mrs. Leighton’s voice dwelt in a suspiciously marked 
manner on the pronoun. 

“Now there’s another opportunity for making use 
of Mabel,” said her husband. 

Mrs. Leighton let her hands fall. 

“Engage my own servants! What next!” she 
asked. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said he. “Cuthbert does 
heaps of things for me. You women are the true 
conservatives. If we had you in power there would 
be no chance for the country.” 

“Well, you might have persuaded Cuthbert to 
succeed you as Chairman of your Company, with a 
steady income and all that sort of thing,” she exclaimed, 
“instead of rushing him into a profession which keeps 
him tied night and day, and gives him no return as 
yet for all his work.” 

should never stand in the way of enthusiasm,” 


58 The Story Book Girls 

said her husband. ‘‘Cuthbert has a real genius for 
his profession.” 

“Then why not find a profession for Mabel?” 

“I have thought of that. It seems right, however, 
that a man ought to be equipped for one profession, 
and a girl for several. I can always leave my girls 
enough money to keep the wolf from the door at least. 
I have an objection to any girl’s being obliged to work 
entirely for her living. Men ought to relieve them of 
that at least. But we must give them occupation; 
work that develops. Come, come, my dear, you must 
let them have their head a little, even although they 
ruin the cakes. A good mother makes useless daughters, 
you know.” 

“Well, it’s a wrench, John.” 

“There, there,” he smiled at her. 

“And the servants are sure to give notice.” 

She regretted much of her pessimism, however, when 
she gave the news to the girls. Not for a long time 
had they been so animated. Each took her one depart- 
ment in the supper menu prepared under the guidance 
of Mrs. Leighton. 

First, chicken salad inserted into a tomato, cut 
into water-lily shape, reposing on lettuce leaves — one 
on each little plate, mayonnaise dressing on top. 

The mayonnaise captured Mabel. 

“But you can’t make it, it’s a most trying thing 
to do — better let cook make it,” interjected Mrs. 
Leighton. 

“What about our party?” asked Mabel. 

“Very well,” said an abject mother. 

So that was settled. 


59 


The Mayonnaise 

Then fruit salad, immediately claimed by Jean, who 
knew everything there was to be known of fruit, inside 
and out, as she explained volubly. Mrs. Leighton’s 
quiet face twitched a trifle and then resolved itself 
into business lines once more. 

Meringues ! they must have meringues ! Nobody 
seemed to rise to that. Elma felt it was her turn. 

“They look awfully difficult,” said she, “but I 
could try a day or two before. I’ll do the me- 
ringues.” 

This cost her a great effort. Mother didn’t appear 
at all encouraging. She snipped her lips together in 
rather a grim way, and it had the effect of sending a cold 
streak of fear up and down the back of the meringue 
volunteer. 

“Are they very difficult, mummy?” she asked 
apologetically. 

“Oh no,” said Mrs. Leighton airily. “After mayon- 
naise, one may do anything.” 

“I can whip cream — beautifully,” explained Elma. 
“It’s that queer crusty thing I’m afraid of.” 

“I shall be ruined in eggs, I see that very distinctly,” 
said Mrs. Leighton. 

After this, there seemed to be no proper opportunity 
for Betty. 

“Couldn’t I make a trifle?” she asked modestly. 

“A trifle at ten.” Mrs. Leighton looked her over. 
“ Oh ! very well — Betty will make trifle.” 

Betty looked as though she would drop into tears. 
Elma put her hand through her arm and whispered 
while the others debated about cakes. “I can find 
out all about trifles. Miss Grace knows. She made 


6o 


The Story Book Girls 

them cen — centuries ago, and Miss Annie never lets 
the new cooks try.’’ 

Betty turned on her a happy face. 

“Oh, Elma, you’re most reviving,” she said grate- 
fully. 

Then they had cakes to consider. Now and again 
they had been allowed to bake cakes, and they felt 
that here they were on their ground. Betty revived 
in a wonderful manner, and immediately insisted on 
baking a gingerbread one. 

“Nobody eats gingerbread at parties,” said Mabel 
in a disgusted voice. “This isn’t a picnic we’re arrang- 
ing, or a schoolroom tea. It’s a grown-up party and we 
just aren’t going to have gingerbread.” 

“Yet I’ve sometimes thought that gingerbread at 
a party tasted very well,” remarked Mrs. Leighton. 

“Oh, mummy!” Mabel seemed very sorry for her 
mother. 

But Betty had regained her confidence. 

“I shall bake gingerbread,” she exclaimed in her 
most dogged manner. 

“There are always the rabbits of course,” said Jean, 
with her nose in the air. 

“Girls, girls,” said Mrs. Leighton. 

“Gingerbread one, walnut cream cake another, 
what will you bake, Jean?” 

“Orange icing,” quoth Jean. 

“And sponge cake cream for Elma,” she added in a 
thoughtful way. 

“I do like the way you fling all the uninteresting 
things at me,” exclaimed Elma. “I think sponge 
cake cream is the moistest, flabbiest, silliest cake I 


The Mayonnaise 6i 

know. We’re putting cream in everything. Every- 
body will be sick of cream. Why can’t I bake a coffee 
cake?” 

“Why can’t she?” asked Mrs. Leighton severely. 
“Coffee cake, Elma,” said Mabel. She had taken 
to paper and pencil. “I only hope we shall know 
what it is when it appears!” 

“And you’d better all begin as soon as you can,” said 
Mrs. Leighton, “so that we find out where we are 
a few days before the party occurs.” 

She still looked with foreboding on the whole 
arrangement. 

Cook preserved a hauteur on the subject of the 
invasion, through which the girls found it very hard to 
break. 

“Never seed such a picnic,” she informed the 
housemaid. “My, you should have been here when 
Miss Betty burned her gingerbread!” 

That was a sad occasion, and after all, there was 
nothing for it but the rabbits. Betty moaned over 
the lost raisins, the “ginger didn’t count.” “I stoned 
every one of them,” she sighed. 

Mr. Leighton found some brown lumps in the rabbit 
hutches. “That’s not the thing for these beasts,” he said, 
“what is it?” And Betty explained that it would be quite 
safe for them, for (once more) hadn’t she stoned every raisin 
herself ? 

“I’m glad you’re a millionaire, John,” said Mrs. Leigh- 
ton grimly when she heard about it. 

Elma made Betty try again. Elma’s heart was in 
her mouth about her own performances, but she hung 
over Betty till a success was secured to the ginger- 


62 


The Story Book Girls 

bread. Then she couldn’t get the kitchen for her 
coffee cake, because Mabs, in a neat white apron and 
sleeves, was ornamenting a ragged-looking structure 
of white icing with little dabs of pink, and trying to 
write “Cuthbert” in neat letters across the top. She 
had prepared a small cake — “just to taste it.” They 
all tasted. It seemed rather crumply. 

“Isn’t there a good deal of walnut in it?” asked 
Mrs. Leighton humbly. 

“It’s nearly all walnut,” said Mabel. “I like 
walnut.” 

Jean worried along with her piece. 

“Nobody will survive this party,” said she. 

At last Lima’s coffee cake got its innings. She was 
so nervous after the gingerbread fiasco that only the ulti- 
mate good humour of Cook saved her. 

“Don’t hurry over it. Miss Lima, it’s coming nicely. 
I’ll tell you when to stop beating.” 

Nothing else would have guaranteed the existence 
of the cake. Cook also saw to the firing. This gave 
Lima such a delightful feeling of gratitude that she 
opened out her heart on the subject of meringues. 
Cook said that of course it was easy for them “as 
had never tried” just to rush in and make meringues 
the first thing. The likes of herself found them “kit- 
tlish” things. You may make meringues all your life, 
and then they’ll go wrong for no reason at all. It was 
“knack” that was wanted principally. 

“Do you think I’ve got knack. Cook?” asked Lima 
humbly. 

Cook gave her a clear night in the kitchen for the 
meringues, as a reward for her humility. It was mar- 


The Mayonnaise 63 

vellous that nearly all of them came fairly decently. 
Cook found the shapes “a bit queer,” but “them as 
knew” who was providing the party wouldn’t think they 
were “either here or there.” 

“I’ll make it up with the cream,” quoth Elma happily. 
A great load was off her mind. 

She now devoted herself to Betty’s trifle. As a 
great triumph they decided to provide a better trifle 
than even Cook knew how to prepare. Miss Grace 
entered heartily into the plan. They were allowed to 
call one morning when she was ensconced in the parlour. 
Saunders brought in solemnly, first, several sheets of 
white paper. These were laid very seriously on the 
bare finely polished table. Then came a plate of 
sponge cake in neat slices, a thin custard in a glass 
jug, several little dishes, — one of blanched almonds 
cut in long strips, another of halved cherries, one of 
tiny macaroon biscuits, and so on. Miss Grace set 
herself in a high chair, and proceedings began. Elma 
wondered to the end of her days what kind of a cook 
Miss Grace would have made if she had been paid for 
her work. Everything was prepared for Miss Grace, 
but she took an hour and a quarter to finish the trifle. 
She added custard in silver spoonfuls as though each 
one had a definite effect of its own, and she several 
times measured the half glassful of cordial which was 
apportioned to each layer of sponge cake. The cere- 
mony seemed interminable. Elma saw how true it 
was what her father often said, that one ought always 
to have a big enough object in life to keep one from 
paying too much importance to trifles. She immedi- 
ately afterwards apologized to herself for the pun, 


64 The Story Book Girls 

which, she explained in that half world of dreaming to 
which she so often resorted, she hadn’t at all in- 
tended. 

Elma and Betty, however, to the end of their days, 
never forgot how to make trifle. 

Betty’s trifle was a magnificent success. But this 
is anticipating matters. 

Jean engaged a whole fruiterer’s shop as it seemed 
for her salad, and found she made enough for forty 
people out of a fourth of what she had ordered. This 
put Mrs. Leighton back into her old prophetic posi- 
tion. Had she not told Jean a quarter of that fruit 
would be enough? 

Mabel arranged everything in good order for her 
chicken concoction, and at last had only the mayon- 
naise to make. That occurred on the afternoon of the 
party. Cuthbert and Harry and Mr. Maclean were 
all about — supposed to be helping. May Turberville, 
Betty’s great friend, and her brother Lance, a boy of 
fourteen, brought round various loans in the way of 
cups and cream and sugar “things.” The table 
in the dining-room was laid for supper with a most 
dainty centre piece decked with roses and candelabra. 
Most of their labours being over, the company retreated 
to the smoke-room, where “high jinks” were soon in 
process. Lance capered about, balancing chairs on his 
nose, and doing the wild things which only take place 
in a smoke-room. 

In the midst of it appeared Mabel, wide-eyed and 
distressed at the door. The white apron of a few days 
ago was smeared with little elongated drops of oily stuff. 
She held a fork wildly dripping in her hand. 


The Mayonnaise 65 

“Oh — oh, isn’t it aT£;ful,” she cried, “the mayon- 
naise won’t may.” 

It was the last anxiety and, in the matter of the 
spirits of the Leighton girls, quite the last straw. Just 
when they had begun to be confident of their party, 
the real backbone of the thing had given out. 

Dr. Harry removed a cigarette from his lips. 

“Hey — what’s that?” he asked. “Mayonnaise 
— ripping ! I knew an American Johnnie who made it. 
Bring it here and we’ll put it right.” 

Mabel spread her hands mutely. “In this atmos- 
phere?” she asked. 

Oh ! They had soon the windows open. Harry 
insisted he could make mayonnaise. “You don’t 
meet American men for nothing, let me tell you,” he said. 
It was fun to see him supplied with plate, fork, 
and bottles. He looked at Mabel’s attempt at 

dressing. 

“Good gracious,” he said, “where’s the egg?” 

Mabel turned rather faint. “I put in the white,” said 
she. 

Dr. Harry roared. Then he explained carefully 

and kindly. 

“Mayonnaise is an interesting affair — apart from 
the joys of eating it. A chemical action takes place be- 
tween the yolk of an egg and the oil and vinegar. 
You could hardly expect the white to play up.” 

“It was Cook,” exclaimed Mabel. “She said 
something about yolks for a custard and whites for — 
for ” 

“Meringues, you donkey,” said Jean. 

Dr. Harry made the mayonnaise. 

F 


66 


The Story Book Girls 

Lance Turberville cut the most shameful capers 
throughout. He decorated Harry with paper aprons 
and the cap of a chef, and stuck his eyeglass in the 
wrong eye while Harry worked patiently with a fork 
in semicircles. He was sent off with Betty and May, 
only to reappear later dressed out as a maid-servant. 
Nobody except Dr. Harry could take the mayonnaise 
seriously while Lance was about. At that moment 
the outdoor bell rang. With the inspiration born of 
mischief, and before any one could stop him, Lance 
rushed off and opened it. 

Three ladies stood on the doorstep. 

He showed them solemnly into the drawing-room, 
tripping over his skirt merely a trifle, and nearly giving 
Bertha, who had primly come to attend to the door, 
hysterics. He advanced to the smoke-room where 
the mayonnaise was nearly completed. 

^‘Mrs. and Miss Dudgeon, and Miss Steven are in the 
drawing-room,” said Lance. 


CHAPTER VII 

Visitors Again 

By itself an occurrence like this would have been un- 
nerving enough. Visitors on the afternoon of a party, 
and such visitors ! But that the Leightons should all 
be more or less in a pickle in regard to the mayonnaise 
and Lance’s foolery seemed to take things altogether 
over the barrier of ordinary life, and land everybody 
in a perfect fizzle. The Dudgeons must have called to 
see Cuthbert, who had never been down yet on these 
occasions when Mrs. Leighton and Mabel and Jean 
with perfect propriety had received them. Mabel had 
had her innings as the eldest of the house, but had re- 
tained an enormous reserve when speaking to Miss 
Dudgeon. Not so Jean, who believed in getting to 
know people at once. Elma and Betty had never ven- 
tured near them since that dreadful day when they all 
did the wrong thing at the wrong moment. 

“Anyhow, the drawing-room is a perfect dream with 
flowers. They can look at that for a bit,” said Jean, 
as they began to remove the regiment of bottles. 
Dr. Harry’s mayonnaise was creamy and perfect and 
Mabel was in high fettle correspondingly. 

67 


68 


The Story Book Girls 

“Do you know,” she said, “I don’t care tuppence 
for the Dudgeons just now. Let’s go in and give 
them a decent reception for once.” It reflected the 
feeling of all, that nothing could disturb their gaiety 
on this day. 

Elma was reminded again how right her father was 
in declaring that once one had an absorbing object 
in front of one, trifles dwindled down to their proper 
level. Why should any of them be afraid of the Story 
Books ? Certainly not at all, on a day when they 
were about to have a ripping party, and the mayon- 
naise at last had “mayed.” Cuthbert gave a big jolly 
laugh at Mabel’s speech. 

“Come along, all of you,” he said. “What about 
those oily fingers of yours, Harry? What a jewel 
of a husband you’ll be ! You, Lance, get off these 
togs and behave yourself.” 

Lance promised abjectly to be an ornament to the 
household for the rest of the afternoon. Something 
in his look as he went off reminded Mabel of other 
promises of Lance. 

“Be good,” she called out to him. 

“Yes, mother,” exclaimed Lance, evidently at work 
already tearing off the skirt, and looking demure and 
mournful. He seemed very ridiculous still, and they went 
off merrily to the drawing-room. 

“Cuthbert,” whispered Elma, “I’m so frightened. Take 
me in.” 

“I’m frightened too,” whispered Cuthbert. 

This made her laugh, so that as she held on to his arm, 
she approached Adelaide Maud in admirable spirits. 
The party invaded the drawing-room, as a flood 


Visitors Again 69 

would invade it — or so it seemed to the Dudgeons, 
who were talking quietly to Mrs. Leighton. The whole 
room sprouted Leightons. Mrs. Dudgeon resorted en- 
tirely to her lorgnette, especially when she shook hands 
with Cuthbert. He stood that ordeal bravely, also the 
ordeal of the speech that followed. 

“You see the two very shy members of the family,” he 
said, bowing gravely and disregarding some sarcastic 
laughter from the background. “May I introduce my 
young sister Lima?” 

Here was honour for Lima. She shook hands with 
crimson cheeks. Then came Adelaide Maud. She gave 
her hand to Cuthbert without a word, but when Lima’s 
turn came she said with rather sweet gravity, “This is 
the little lady, isn’t it, who plays to Miss Grace?” 

Lima was thunderstruck, but Cuthbert, the magnifi- 
cent, seemed very pleased. 

“Oh — Miss Grace didn’t tell you!” asked Lima. 

“No, I heard you one day, and Miss Annie told me 
it was you.” 

Adelaide Maud sat down on a low chair, and drew 
Lima on to the arm. 

“What was it you were playing?” she asked. 

“One is called ‘Anything you like,’ and one is ‘A little 
thing of my own,’ and the others are just any- 
thing,” said Lima. 

Adelaide Maud laughed. 

The room was filled with chattering voices, and Mrs. 
Dudgeon had claimed Cuthbert, so that it became a very 
easy thing for them to be confidential without any one’s 
noticing. 

“It’s quite stup — stup 


Lima- stopped. 


70 


The Story Book Girls 

‘‘Stupid?^’ asked Adelaide Maud. 

“No, stup-endous,” said Elma thankfully, “for me 
to be talking all alone with you.” Her fright had 
run away as it always did whenever any one looked 
kindly at her. The sweet eyes of Adelaide Maud dis- 
armed her, and she worshipped on the spot. “I’ve 
always been so afraid of you,” she said simply. “It 
ought to be Hermione, but I know it will always be 
you.” 

“Who is Hermione?” asked Adelaide Maud. 

Elma suddenly woke up. 

“Oh, I daren’t tell you,” said she. 

Adelaide Maud looked about her in a constrained 
way. 

“I wish you would play to me, dear,” she said. 

Was this really to be believed ! 

“I could in the schoolroom,” said Elma, “but not 
here.” 

“Take me to the schoolroom,” said Adelaide 
Maud. 

Elma placed her hand in that of the other delicately 
gloved one, without a tremor. 

“Don’t let them see us go,” she begged. 

Three people did however, Cuthbert with a bound- 
ing heart, Mabel with thankfulness that the house 
was really in exhibition order, and Jean with blank 
amazement. Elma had walked off in ten minutes 
intimately with the flower that Jean had as it were 
been tending carefully for weeks and had not dared to 
pluck. There was something of the dark horse about 
Elma. 

They were much taken up with Miss Steven, however. 


Visitors Again 71 

She was very fair and petite, and had pretty ways of 
curving herself and throwing back her head, and of 
spreading her hands when she talked. She seemed to 
like to have the eyes of the room fixed on her. Quite 
different from the Dudgeons, who in about two ticks 
stared one out of looking at them at all. Mr. Leighton 
came in also, and what might be called her last thaw 
was undergone by Mrs. Dudgeon in the pleasure of meet- 
ing him. If she had her ideas on beaded cushions, 
she had certainly no objections to Mr. Leighton. In 
five minutes he was explaining to her why sea trout 
are to be discovered in fresh water lakes at certain 
seasons of the year. 

Unfortunately, just then Mrs. Dudgeon happened 
to look out of the windows. There were three long 
ones, and each opened out on that sunny day to the lawn 
at the side of the house. If Mrs. Dudgeon had 
kept her eye on the Louis Seize clock or the famous 
Monticelli, all might have gone well, but she preferred 
to look out of the window. In spite of the general 
hilarity of the party around her, her action in look- 
ing out seemed to impress them all. Everybody except 
Mr. Leighton looked out also, and then came an ominous 
silence. 

Mr. Maclean giggled. 

This formed a link to a burst of conversation. Jean 
turned to Miss Steven and engaged her in a whirlwind 
of talk. Cuthbert vainly endeavoured to move the 
stony glance of Mrs. Dudgeon once more in the direction 
of his father. Dr. Harry wildly asked Mabel to play 
something. 

Mabel never forgave him. 


72 


The Story Book Girls 

Mrs. Dudgeon immediately became preternaturally 
polite, said she had often heard of the musical proclivi- 
ties of the Misses Leighton, and Mabel had really 
to play. 

“Oh, Harry,” she exclaimed, “I never played with 
a burden like this on my mind, never in all my life. 
The party to-night — and that mayonnaise — (it will 
keep maying, won’t it?), and Elma goodness knows 
where with Adelaide Maud, and those kids in the garden 
— couldn’t Cuthbert go and slay them?” 

She dashed into a Chopin polonaise. 

The kids in the garden were what had upset Mrs. 
Dudgeon. There were two — evidently playing “ catch 
me if you can” with one of the maid-servants — the 
one who had shown them in. She rushed about in a 
manner which looked very mad. This exhibition 
on the drawing-room side of the house ! Really — 
these middle class people ! 

Mrs. Dudgeon extended the lorgnette to look at them 
once more. 

A horizontal bar was erected in a corner of the lawn. 
Towards this the eccentric maid-servant seemed to be 
making determined passes, frantically prevented every 
now and again by the two young girls. The chords of 
the “railway polonaise” hammered out a violent accom- 
paniment. Mabel could play magnificently when in a 
rage. Little Miss Steven was enchanted. 

Nearer came the maid-servant to the horizontal bar. 
At last she reached it. May and Betty sat down 
plump on the lawn in silent despair. Lance pulled him- 
self^ gently and gracefully up. Not content with getting 
there, he kissed his hand to the unresponsive drawing- 


73 


Visitors Again 

room windows. To do him justice, there was little 
sign for him that any one saw him, and Mabel’s piano 
playing seemed to envelop everything. He did some 
graceful things towards the end of the polonaise, 
but with the last chords became violently mischievous 
again. With a wild whirl he turned a partial somer- 
set. Mrs. Dudgeon shrieked. “Oh, that woman,” 
said she. Just then Lance stopped his whirlings and 
sent his feet straight into the air. His skirts fell 
gracefully over his face. Dr. Harry laughed a loud 
laugh, and at last Mr. Leighton asked what was the 
matter. 

“It’s Lance,” said Jean. “He has been playing 
tricks all the afternoon.” 

Everything might have been forgiven except that 
Mrs. Dudgeon had been taken in. She had screamed 
“That woman.” 

She began to look about for Adelaide Maud. 

“Will you be so kind as to tell my daughter that we 
must be going ? ” she said to Mr. Leighton. 

Cuthbert volunteered to look for her. 

Dr. Harry really did the neat thing. He went out 
for Lance and brought him in with Betty and May. 
He hauled Lance by the ear to Mrs. Dudgeon. 

“Here you see a culprit of the deepest dye.” 

Lance looked very rosy and mischievous, and Miss 
Steven, who had been immersed in hysterical laugh- 
ter since his exploit on the bar, was delighted with 
him. 

“I am so sorry,” said Lance gravely, encouraged by 
this appreciation, “but I promised mother that I should 
be an ornament to the company this afternoon.” 


74 


The Story Book Girls 

“Oh, Lance,” said May, “how can you?” 

“By ‘mother’ of course, I mean Mabel,” said Lance 
to Mrs. Dudgeon in an explanatory fashion. “She 
has grown so cocky since she put her hair up.” 

Mrs. Dudgeon determined to give up trying to unravel 
the middle classes. 

Mr. Maclean broke in. “Everybody spoils Lance, 
Mrs. Dudgeon. It isn’t quite his own fault ; look at Miss 
Steven.” 

Miss Steven, always prompt to appreciate a person’s 
wickedest mood, had made an immediate friend of 
Lance. 

“They are a great trial to us, these young people,” 
said Mr. Leighton gently. 

The speech wafted her back to her gracious mood, 
and for a little while longer she forgot that she had sent 
for Adelaide Maud. 

Meanwhile Cuthbert endeavoured to discover what 
had happened to that “delicious” person. 

With swishing skirts, and gleam of golden hair under 
a white hat, Elma had seen herself escort Adelaide 
Maud from the drawing-room to the schoolroom. 
Adelaide Maud sat on a hassock in the room where 
“you don’t mean to say you were all babies,” and 
Elma played “anything you like” to her. 

Adelaide Maud’s face became of the dreamy far-away 
consistency of Miss Grace’s — without the cap, and Elma 
felt her cup of happiness run over. 

“Does your sister play like that?” asked Adelaide 
Maud. 

“Far better,” said Elma simply. 

They heard the bars of the railway polonaise, and the 


Visitors Again 75 

schoolroom being just over the drawing-room, they had 
also the full benefit of Lance’s exploit. 

Adelaide Maud laughed and laughed. 

“Oh, what will Mrs. Dudgeon say?” asked Elma. 

She told Adelaide Maud about the party, — a frightful 
“breach of etiquette” as Mabel informed her later. 
Adelaide Maud’s face grew serious and rather sad. 

“What a pity you live in another ph-phrase of 
society,” sighed Elma, “or you would be coming too, 
wouldn’t you?” 

“Would you really ask me?” asked Adelaide Maud. 

Ask her? 

Did Adelaide Maud think that if the world were made 
of gold and one could help one’s self to it, one wouldn’t 
have a little piece now and again ! She was just about 
to explain that they would do anything in the world to 
ask her, when Cuthbert came into the room. Adelaide 
Maud got so stiff at that moment, that immediately 
Elma understood that it would never do to ask her to 
the party. 

Cuthbert explained that Mrs. Dudgeon had sent 
him to fetch Miss Dudgeon. 

“Oh,” said Adelaide Maud. 

She did not make the slightest move towards leaving, 
however. 

She looked straight at Cuthbert, and Elma could 
have sworn she saw her lip quiver. 

“I believe I have to apologize to you,” she said in 
a very cold voice. “I cut out a dance, didn’t I — at the 
Calthorps?” 

“Did you?” asked Cuthbert. 

Elma wondered that he could be so negligent in 


76 The Story Book Girls 

speaking to Adelaide Maud. She never could bear 
to see Cuthbert severe, and it had the effect of terrifying 
her a trifle and making her take the hand of Adelaide 
Maud in a defensive sort of manner. 

Adelaide Maud held her hand quite tightly, as though 
Elma were really a friend of some standing. 

“I didn’t intend to, but I know it seemed like it,” said 
Adelaide Maud in perfectly freezing tones. 

Cuthbert looked at her very directly and seemed to 
answer the freezing side more than the apologizing 
one. 

“Oh — a small thing of that sort, what does it matter?” 
he said grandly. 

Adelaide Maud turned quite pale. 

“Thank you,” said she. “It’s quite sweet of you to 
take it like that,” and she marched out of the school- 
room with her skirts swishing and her head high. No — 
it would never do to invite Adelaide Maud to the 
party. 

Elma however had seen another side to this very dig- 
nified lady, and so ran after her and took her hand 
again. 

“You aren’t vexed with me, are you?” she whispered. 

Adelaide Maud at the turn of the stairs, and just at 
the point where Cuthbert, coming savagely behind, 
could not see, bent and kissed Elma. 

“What day do you go to Miss Grace’s?” she 
asked. 

“To-morrow at three,” whispered Elma, with her 
plans for that quite suddenly arranged. 

“Don’t tell,” said Adelaide Maud. “I shall be 
there.” 


77 


Visitors Again 

Mrs. Dudgeon departed with appropriate gracious- 
ness. The irrepressible gaiety of the company round 
her had merely served to make her more unapproach- 
able. She greeted Adelaide Maud with a stare, and 
strove to make her immediate adieus. Mr. Maclean, 
always ready to notice a deficiency, remembered that 
Mr. Leighton had never met Adelaide Maud, and forth- 
with introduced her. Adelaide Maud took this intro- 
duction shyly, and Mr. Leighton was charmed with 
her. With an unfaltering estimate of character he 
appraised her then as being one in a hundred amongst 
girls. Adelaide Maud, on her part, showed him gentle 
little asides to her nature which one could not have be- 
lieved existed. Mrs. Dudgeon grew really impatient 
at the constant interruptions which impeded her 
exit. 

^‘Mr. Leighton has just been telling me,’^ she said by 
way of getting out of the drawing-room, “that a little 
party is to be celebrated here to-night. I fear we detain 
you all.” Nothing could have been more gracious — and 
yet ! Mabel flushed. It seemed so like a children’s 
affair — that they should be having a party and that 
the really important people were actually clearing out 
in order to allow it to occur. 

Miss Steven said farewell with real regret. 

“I don’t know when I have had such a jolly afternoon,” 
she said. “I think I must get knocked over oftener. 
Though I don’t want Mr. Leighton to break his ribs 
every time. Do you know,” she said in a most heart- 
breaking manner, “I’ve been hardly able to breathe 
for thinking of it ? You can’t think how nice it is to see 
you all so jolly after all.” 


78 


The Story Book Girls 

When they had got into the Dudgeons’ carriage, and 
were rolling swiftly homewards, she yawned a trifle. 

“What cures they are,” she said airily. 

Adelaide Maud, in her silent corner of the carriage, felt 
her third pang of that memorable afternoon. 


CHAPTER VIII 


The Party 

Nobody knew how anybody got dressed for the party, 
and certainly nobody took any dinner to speak of. It 
was laid in the morning-room, and Mr. Leighton said 
throughout that roystering meal that never again, no 
matter how many ribs Cuthbert broke or how much 
sympathy he excited, would he allow them to have a 
party. 

The occasion became memorable not only because 
of Cuthbert or the mayonnaise, or the Dudgeons, but 
because on that night Robin Meredith appeared. Mabel 
and Jean lately had already in quite a practical manner 
begun to wonder whom Mabel would be obliged to marry. 
Jean was getting very tall, and showed signs of being so 
near the grown-up stage herself, that she was anxious 
to see Mabel disposed of, so as to leave the way clear. 

“The eldest of four ought to look sharp,” she declared; 
“we can’t allow any trifling.” 

This seemed rather overwhelming treatment of 
Mabel, who was only seventeen. But viewed from 
that age, even a girl of twenty-one is sometimes voted 
an old maid, and Mabel was quite determined not to 
become an old maid. 

“There seems to be only George Maclean,” she had 
79 


8o 


The Story Book Girls 

sighed in a dismal way. She was quite different from 
Elma, who continually dreamed of a duke. George 
Maclean would do very well for Mabel, only, as Jean 
complained, “George Maclean is a gentleman and all 
that kind of thing, but he has no prospects.” So they 
rather disposed of George Maclean for immediate pur- 
poses at least. Then came Mr. Meredith. After that, 
in the language of the Leightons, it was all up with 
Mabel. She would simply have to get engaged and 
married to Mr. Meredith. 

Mr. Meredith was of middle height, with rather a 
square, ffair face, and a short cut-away dark moustache. 
He spoke in a bright concise sort of way, and darted very 
quick glances at people when addressing them. He 
came in with the Gardiners, and after shaking hands 
with Mrs. Leighton, he darted several quick glances 
round the room and then asked abruptly of Lucy 
Gardiner “who was the tall girl in white?” 

Here was the point where the fortunes of the Leighton 
girls became at last crystallized, concrete. It is all 
very well to dream, but it is much pleasanter to be sure 
that something is really about to happen. 

None of this undercurrent was noticeable, however, 
in the general behaviour of that imaginative four. They 
began the evening in a dignified way with music. Every 
one either sang or played. Jean in her usual hearty 
fashion dashed through a “party piece.” Even Elma 
was obliged to play the Boccherini Minuet, which she 
did with the usual nervous blunders. 

As Dr. Harry placed the • music ready for her, she 
whispered to him, “Whenever I lift my heels off the 
floor, my knees knock against each other.” 


The Party 8 1 

“Keep your heels down,’’ said Dr. Harry with the 
immobile air of a commanding officer. 

Elma found the piano pedals, and in the fine desire 
to follow out Dr. Harry’s instructions, played Boccherini 
with both pedals down throughout. 

“How you do improve, Elma!” said May Turber- 
ville politely. 

And Elma looked at her with a mute despair in her 
eyes, of which hours of laughter could not rid them. 
If only they knew, those people in that room, if only 
they knew what she wanted to play, the melo^es that 
came singing in her heart when she was happy, the 
minor things when she was sad ! All she could do when 
people were collected to stare at her was to play the 
Boccherini Minuet exceedingly badly. The weight of 
“evenings” had begun already to rest on Elma. Her 
undoubted gifts at learning and understanding music 
brought her into sharp prominence with her teachers 
and family, but never enabled Elma to exhibit herself 
with advantage on any real occasion. 

It was all the more inexplicable that Mabel could at 
once dash into anything with abandon and perfect 
correctness. Technique and understanding seemed born 
in her. In the same way could she, light-heartedly 
and gracefully, take the new homage of Mr. Meredith, 
who made no secret of his interest in her from the first 
moment of entering the drawing-room. Mabel received 
him as she received a Sonata by Beethoven. With fleet 
fingers she could read the one as though she had practised 
it all her life; with dainty manners she seemed to com- 
prehend Mr. Meredith from the start, as though she 
had been accustomed to refusing and accepting desirable 


G 


82 


The Story Book Girls 

husbands from time immemorial. It put her on a new- 
footing with the rest of the girls. They felt in quite 
a decided way, within a few days even, that the 
old, rather childish fashion of talking about hus- 
bands was to be dropped, and that no jokes were to 
be perpetrated in regard to Mr. Meredith. It began 
to be no fun at all having an eligible sister in the 
house. 

On this night, however, they were still children. 
About forty young people, school friends of themselves 
and Cuthbert, sustained that gaiety with which they 
had begun the afternoon. Even the musical part, 
where Mr. Leighton presided and encouraged young 
girls with no musical talents whatever to play and 
sing, passed with a certain amount of lightness. Before 
an interlude of charades, a strange girl was shown in. 
She giggled behind an enormous fan, and made a great 
show of canary-coloured curls in the process. She 
seemed to have on rather skimpy skirts, and she showed 
in a lumbering way rather large shiny patent shoes with 
flat boys’ bows on them. 

There was a moment of indecision before Betty broke 
out with the remark, “You might have had the sense to 
hide your feet, Lance.” 

The canary-coloured curls enabled Lance to look 
becomingly foolish. In any case, Mr. Leighton could 
not prevent the intellectual part of the evening from 
falling to bits. They had no more real music. In- 
stead, they fell on Lance and borrowed his curls, and 
made some good charades till supper time. 

“I can’t help feeling very rocky about that supper,” 
whispered Jean to Mabel. “Yet we’ve everything — 


The Party 


83 


sandwiches, cake, fruit and lemonade, tea and coffee. 
What can go wrong now?’^ 

“ Oh ! the thing’s all right,” said Mabel, who was 
in a severely exalted mood by this time. 

They trooped into the dining-room, where girls were 
provided in a crushy way with seats round the room, 



and boys ran about and handed 


Leighton gave the head of the table to Mabel, who sat 
in an elderly way and poured coffee. The salad was 
magnificent. Aunt Katharine had come in “to look 
on.” Mrs. Leighton told her how Mabel had arranged 
forty-two plates that morning, with water-lily tomatoes 
cut ready and chopped chicken in the centres, and 
had nearly driven Cook silly with the shelves she used 
for storing these things in cool places. 

“Wherever you looked — miles and miles of little 
plates with red water lilies,” said Mrs. Leighton. “It 
was most distracting for Cook. I wonder the woman 
stays.” 

^ “What a mess!” said Aunt Katharine. “You spoil 
these girls, you know, Lucy.” 

“Oh — it’s Mr. Leighton,” said she sadly. 

“I don’t think mayonnaise is a very suitable thing 
for young people’s parties,” said Aunt Katharine 
dingily. 

By this time the white cake with “Cuthbert” in pink 
was handed solemnly round. Every person had a 
large piece, it looked so good. 

Every one said, “Walnut, how lovely,” when they 
took the first bite. 

Every one stopped at the second bite. 

“Cuthbert,” called out Mrs. Leighton after she had 


84 The Story Book Girls 

investigated her own piece, “I notice that your father 
has none of the cake. Please take him a slice and see 
that he eats it.” 

Mr. Leighton waved it away. 

“I do not eat walnuts,” said he. 

Mrs. Leighton went to him. 

“John, this is not fair, this is your idea of a party,” 
she said. “You ought to eat Cuthbert’s cake.” 

“He can’t,” cried Jean; “nobody can. It’s only 
Mabel who likes iced marbles.” 

“You will all have to eat gingerbread,” said the voice 
of Betty hopefully. 

Jean started up in great indignation with a large 
battered-looking “orange iced cake” ready to cut. 

“Betty always gets herself advertised first,” she 
complained. “Please try my orange icing.” 

They did — they tried anything in order to escape 
Mabel’s walnuts. It occurred to the girls that Mabel 
would be quite broken up at the wretched failure of 
her wonderful cake — the Cuthbert cake too. It was 
such a drop from their high pedestal of perfection. 
Even mummy, who had been so much on her own high 
horse at all their successes, now became quite feelingly 
sorry about the cake. She gave directions for having 
the loose pieces collected and surreptitiously put out 
of sight, but the large dish had to remain in front of 
Mabel. Mabel was still charmingly occupied over her 
coffee cups. She poured in a pretty direct way and 
yet managed to talk interestedly to Mr. Meredith. He 
was invaluable as a helper. 

“And now, at last,” said she in a most winning 
way, “you must have a slice of my cake. I baked 


The Party 85 

it myself, and it’s full of walnuts. Don’t you love 
walnuts?” 

“I do,” said Mr. Meredith. 

May Turberville nudged Betty, and Lance stared 
open-mouthed at the courage of Mabel. He would do 
a good deal for the Leighton girls, but he barred that 
particular cake. An electric feeling of comprehension 
ran round the company. They seemed to know that 
Mabel was about to taste her own cake and give a large 
slice to Mr. Meredith. They made little airy remarks 
to one another in order to keep the conversation going, 
so that Mabel might not detect by some sudden 
pause that every one was watching her. One heard 
Julia Gardiner say in an intense manner to Harry 
Somerton that the begonias at Mrs. Somerton’s were 
a “perfect dream.” And Harry answered that for 
his part he liked football better. Even Mr. Leighton 
noticed the trend of things, and stopped discussing 
higher morality with Aunt Katharine. 

Mabel seemed to take an interminable time. She 
gave Mr. Meredith a large piece, and insisted besides 
on serving him with an unwieldy lump of pink icing 
containing a large scrawly “e” from the last syllable of 
Cuthbert’s name. 

“E — aw,” brayed Lance gently, and Betty exploded 
into a long series of helpless giggles. 

“What a baby you are, Lance,” said Mabel, amiably 
laughing. She bit daintily at the walnut cake. 

Mr. Meredith bit largely. 

There was an enormous pause while they waited to 
see what he would do. 

Cuthbert and Ronald Martin were near, aimlessly 


86 


The Story Book Girls 

handing trifle and fruit salad. Mr. Meredith helped 
with one hand to pass a cup. 

“You know, Leighton,” he said, “I have a great 
friend, he was one of your year — Vincent Hope — do 
you remember him?” 

Cuthbert stared. One mouthful was gone and Mr. 
Meredith was cheerfully gulping another. 

“What a digestion the man has!” he thought, and 
next was plunged politely in reminiscent conversation 
regarding his College days. 

Mabel sat crunching quite happily at the despised 
walnut cake. 

Lance approached her timidly. 

“For Heaven’s sake,” he said, “give me a large cup 
of coffee for the ostrich. The man will die if he isn’t 
helped.” 

“Who on earth do you mean, Lance?” asked Mabel 
innocently. 

“Meredith. Don’t you see he has eaten the cake?” 

Mabel looked conscience-stricken. Her own slice 
had not dwindled much. 

“It is rather chucky-stony, isn’t it?” she asked 
anxiously. 

“It’s terrific,” said Lance sagely. 

Mabel looked quite crushed for a moment, so crushed 
that even Lance’s mischievous heart relented. 

“Never mind, Mabel,” he comforted her. “If Mere- 
dith can do that much for you without a shudder, he 
will do anything. It’s a splendid test.” 

A golden maxim of Mrs. Leighton’s flashed into 
Mabel’s mind. “You never know a man till he has 
been tried.” It made her smile to think that already 


The Party 87 

they might be supposed to be getting to know Mr. 
Meredith because of her villainous cake. 

“The piece we tested wasn’t so bad,” she explained 
to Lance, quite forgetting that she had skimped that 
quantity in order to get plenty of chopped walnuts into 
the “real” cake. 

A few people in the room seemed fearfully amused, 
and poor Mabel in an undefined manner began to feel 
decidedly out of it. Lance went about like a con- 
spirator, commenting on the appearance of “the 
ostrich.” He approached Cuthbert, asking him in an 
anxious manner how long the signs of rapid poisoning 
might be expected to take to declare themselves after 
a quadruple dose of walnut cake. Mr. Meredith, 
unruffled, still handed about cups for Mabel. 

Jean was in a corner with her dearest friend Maud 
Hartley. 

“Isn’t it wonderful what love can do?” she remarked 
quite seriously. It was a curious thing that Lima, who 
dreamed silly dreams about far-away things, and was 
despised for this accordingly by the robust Jean, did 
not become romantic over Mr. Meredith at all. She 
merely thought that he must be fearfully fond of walnuts. 

The supper was hardly a pleasure to her — or to 
Betty. Every dish was an anxiety. They could almost 
count the plates for the different courses in their desire 
to know whether each had been successfully disposed of. 
There was no doubt about the trifle. 

“What a pity Mabel didn’t make it,” sighed Jean. 
After all, Mabel had only inspired the chicken salad, 
and even there Dr. Harry had made the mayonnaise. 

“It isn’t much of a start for her with Mr. Meredith,” 


88 


The Story Book Girls 

she sighed dismally, “if only we hadn’t told anybody 
which was which.” 

Mr. Meredith took a large amount of trifle, praising 
it considerably. 

This alarmed Lance more than ever. 

“One good thing does not destroy a bad thing,” he 
exclaimed. “The first axiom to be learned in chemistry 
is that one smell does not kill another. It is a popular 
delusion that it does. Meredith seems to have been 
brought up on popular lines.” 

He posed in front of Cuthbert with his hands in his 
pockets. 

“We are running a great risk,” said he. “To- 
morrow morning Meredith may be saying things about 
your sisters which may prevent us men from being 
friends with him — for ever.” 

Above the general flood of conversation. Aunt 
Katharine’s treble voice might now be heard. 

“Mabel,” she said in a kind manner, “I must com- 
pliment you. When your mother told me about this 
ridiculous party, I told her she was spoiling you as she 
always does. In my young days we weren’t allowed 
to be extravagant and experiment in cooking whenever a 
party occurred. We began with the ‘common round, 
the daily task.’ ” Aunt Katharine sighed heavily. 
“But I never knew you could make a trifle like 
this.” 

Mabel had been sitting like the others, trying to 
subdue the merriment which Aunt Katharine’s long 
speeches usually aroused. The wind-up to this tirade 
alarmed her however. She would have to tell them 
all, with Mr. Meredith standing there, that the trifle 


The Party 89 

was not her trifle. She would have to say that it 
was Betty’s. 

Before she could open her mouth, however, the whole 
loyal regiment of Leightons had forestalled her. 

“Isn’t it a jolly trifle!” they exclaimed. Mabel 
could even hear Betty’s little pipe joining in. 

“ Oh, but I must tell you,” she began. 

Cuthbert appeared at the doorway. 

“Drawing-room cleared for dancing,” said he. 
“Come along.” 

That finished it, and the girls were delighted with 
themselves. But one little melancholy thing for 
all her partisanship disturbed Jean considerably. Mr. 
Meredith, on giving his arm to Mabel for the first 
dance, was heard distinctly to remark, “You make 
all these delicious things as well as play piano! How 
clever of you.” 

And Mabel, looking perfectly possessed, floated round 
to the first waltz as though she had not made a com- 
plete muddle of the walnut cake. 

Jean did not regret their generosity, but she was 
saddened by it. 

“It all comes of being the eldest,” she confided to Maud. 
“We may stand on our heads now if we like, but if 
anything distinguished happens in the family, Mabel 
will get the credit of it.” 


CHAPTER IX 


At Miss Grace’s 

Miss Grace sat crocheting in her white and gold 
drawing-room and Elma played to her. Then the 
front door bell rang. 

“Oh, please, Miss Grace,” said Elma with crimson 
cheeks, “that is Adelaide Maud.” 

“She isn’t coming, I hope, to disturb our afternoons, 
and your playing,” asked Miss Grace anxiously. 

“Oh, Miss Grace, she has eyes like yours and listens 
most interrogatively,” said Elma in the greatest alarm. 
The fear that Miss Grace might be offended only now 
assailed her. 

“Intelligently, dear,” corrected Miss Grace. 

“I never did truly think she would come,” said 
Elma. 

“Then, dear, it was not very polite to invite her.” 
Miss Grace could not bear that Elma should miss any 
point in her own gentle code of etiquette. 

“In justice to little Elma, I invited myself.” The 
full-throated tones of Miss Dudgeon’s voice came to 
them from the door. “And what is more, I said to 
Saunders, ‘Let me surprise Miss Grace, I do not want 
to disturb the music.’” 


90 


At Miss Grace’s 


91 

“And then of course the music stopped/’ said Miss 
Grace. 

She kissed Adelaide Maud in a very friendly way. 

“Oh, but it will go on again at once, if neither of 
you are offended,” said Elma. She was much re- 
lieved. 

“You must not be so afraid of offending people,” 
said Miss Grace. “It is a great fault of yours, dear.” 

As Adelaide Maud bent to kiss her, Elma was 
struck with the justice of this criticism. 

“I believe I might be as fascinating as Mabel if 
only I weren’t afraid,” she thought to herself. The 
reflection made her play in a minor key. 

“Just let me say a few words to Miss Grace,” had 
said Adelaide Maud. “Play on and don’t mind us 
for a bit.” 

Adelaide Maud spoke to Miss Grace in an undertone. 
Elma thought they did it to let her feel at ease, and 
correspondingly played quite happily. 

“I have seen Dr. Merry weather,” said Adelaide 
Maud to Miss Grace. “He says you must go off for 
a change at once.” 

“Dr. Merryweather ! ” 

Miss Grace turned very pale. 

“Exactly. I did it on my own responsibility. He 
was most concerned about you. He said that what 
Dr. Smith had ordered you ought to carry out.” 

“He was always very hard on Annie,” said Miss 
Grace, who saw only one side to such a proposal. 

Adelaide Maud bent her head a trifle. 

“You ought not to think of Miss Annie, at present,” 
said she. “It isn’t right. It isn’t fair to her either. 


92 The Story Book Girls 

Supposing you turn really ill, what would become of 
her?’’ 

Neither noticed the lagging notes on the piano. 
Instead, in the earnestness of their conversation, they 
entirely forgot Elma. 

Miss Grace shook her head. 

“I can’t help it,” she said. “Whatever happens 
to me, I must stay by my bed-ridden sister. Who 
would look after her if I deserted her? What is my 
poor well-being compared to hers?” 

The notes on the piano fell completely away. Elma 
sat with the tears raining down her face. 

“Oh, Miss Grace,” she said brokenly, “are you 
ill? Don’t say you are ill.” 

The sky had fallen indeed, if such a thing could be 
true as Miss Grace in a trouble of her own — and such 
a trouble — ill health — when Miss Annie required her 
so much. 

Adelaide Maud looked greatly discouraged. 

“Now, Elma,” she exclaimed abruptly, “Miss Grace 
is only a little bit ill, and it’s to keep her from getting 
worse that I’m talking to her. We didn’t intend you 
to listen. Miss Annie will wonder why the piano has 
stopped. Be cheerful now and play a bit — something 
merrier than what you’ve been at.” 

She pretended not to see that Miss Grace wiped her 
eyes a trifle. 

“I make you an offer, Miss Grace. I shall come 
here every day and stay and be sweet to every one. I 
shall take Miss Annie her flowers and her books 
and her work, and I shall bark away all nasty 
intruders like a good sheep dog. I shall keep the 


At Miss Grace’s 


93 


servants in a good temper — including Saunders, who 
is a love, and I promise you, you will never regret it 
— if only you go away for a holiday — now — before 
you have time to be ill, because you didn’t take the 
thing at the start ! ” 

(Could this be Adelaide Maud !) 

Elma flung herself off the music stool, and rushed 
to Miss Grace. 

^‘And oh, please, please. Miss Grace, let me go with 
you to see that you get better. You never will unless 
some one makes you. You will just try to get back 
to Miss Annie.” Thus Elma sounded the first note 
of that great quality she possessed which distinguished 
the thing other people required and made her anxious 
to see it given to them. 

A break in Miss Grace’s calm determination oc- 
curred. 

^‘Oh, that, my love, my dear little love, that would 
be very pleasant.” She patted Elma’s hand with 
anxious affection. 

Adelaide Maud looked hopeful. 

“Won’t you leave it to us?” she asked, “to Dr. 
Smith to break it to Miss Annie, as a kind of command, 
and to me to break it to Mr. Leighton as an abject 
request? Because I believe this idea of Elma’s is 
about as valuable as any of mine. You must have 
some one with you who knows how self-denying you 
are. Miss Grace. You ought to have Dr. Merryweather 
with you, in fact, to keep you in order.” 

“My dear, how can you suggest such a thing?” said 
Miss Grace. She was quite horrified. 

“Dr. Smith,” she turned to Elma, “has ordered 


94 


The Story Book Girls 

me off to Buxton, to a nasty crowded hotel where 
they drink nasty waters all day long.” 

“They don’t drink the waters in the hotel, and 
the hotels are very nice,” corrected Miss Dudgeon. 

“It will be very hot and crowded and dull,” wailed 
Miss Grace. It was astonishing how obstinate Miss 
Grace could be on a point where her own welfare was 
concerned. 

Elma clasped and unclasped her hands. 

“A hotel! Oh, Miss Grace, how perfectly lovely!” 

“There, you see,” said Miss Dudgeon, wonderfully 
quick to notice where her advantage came in, “you 
see what a delightful time you will confer on whoever 
goes with you. Some of us love hotels.” 

Perhaps nobody ever knew what a golden picture 
the very suggestion opened out to Elma. Already 
she was in a gorgeous erection with gilt cornices and 
red silk curtains, like one she had seen in town. People 
whom she had never met were coming and going and 
looking at her as though they would like to speak to 
her. She would not know who their aunts or cousins or 
parents were, and she shouldn’t have to be introduced. 
They would simply come to Miss Grace and, noticing 
how distinguished she looked, they would say, “May 
I do this or that for you?” and the thing was done. 
She herself would be able to behave to them as she 
always behaved in her daydreams, very correctly 
and properly. She would never do the silly blunder- 
ing thing which one always did when other people 
were well aware of the reputation one was supposed 
to bear. Didn’t every one at home know, before 
she sat down to play piano for instance, that she invari- 


At Miss Grace’s 


95 


ably made mistakes. Jean would say, ^‘Oh, Elma 
gets so rattled, you know,” and immediately it seemed 
as though she ought to get rattled. Nobody in the 
hotel would know this. She saw herself playing to 
an immense audience without making a single mistake. 
Then the applause — it became necessary to remember 
that Miss Grace was still speaking. 

Miss Grace sat with her hands folded nervously. 
She was quite erect in a way, but there was invariably 
a pathetic little droop to her head and shoulders which 
gave her a delicate appearance. A very costly piece 
of creamy lace was introduced into the bodice of her 
grey gown, and on it the locket which contained Miss 
Annie’s portrait and hair rose and fell in little agitated 
jerks. Miss Annie wore a corresponding locket con- 
taining Miss Grace’s portrait and hair, but these always 
lay languorously on her white throat undisturbed by 
such palpitation as now exalted Miss Grace. 

‘‘Oh, my dear,” she said to Miss Dudgeon, “you 
don’t understand. The gaiety of the place is nothing 
to me. It’s like being here — where my friends say 
to me how nice it is to have windows opening on to 
the high road, where so many people pass. I tell 
them that it isn’t those who pass, it is those who 
come in who count. You passed for so long, my dear.” 

She put her hand mutely on that of Adelaide Maud. 

It was true then. Miss Grace hadn’t known her 
all these years when the Leighton girls talked about 
the Story Books so much, but only recently ! The 
Dudgeons must really be coming out of their shell. 

Elma’s eyes grew round with conjecture. 

Why was Adelaide Maud so friendly now? 


96 The Story Book Girls 

“It was really Dr. Merryweather,’’ said Adelaide 
Maud. 

A faint flush invaded Miss Grace’s pallor. 

“It is most kind of Dr. Merry weather. Years ago 

I am afraid we rather slighted him.” 

“Oh well, he keeps a very friendly eye on you, Miss 
Grace, and he says you are to go to Buxton.” 

It became the first real trouble of Miss Grace’s own 
life, that she should have to go to Buxton. Adelaide 
Maud arranged it for her, otherwise the thing would 
never have occurred. It was she who persuaded Dr* 
Smith to put it this way to Miss Annie, that it would 
be dangerous for her to have the anxiety of Miss Grace’s 
being ill at home, and most upsetting to the household. 
It was better that the excursion should be looked upon 
as a holiday graciously granted by Miss Annie, the 
donor of it, than an imperative measure ordered by 
the doctor for the saving of Miss Grace. 

Miss Grace wondered at the ready acquiescence of 
Miss Annie. She seemed almost pleased to let her 
sister go. In a rather sad way. Miss Grace began to 
wonder whether, after all, she might not have re- 
leased herself years ago. Would Annie have minded? 
The progress of this malady which now asserted itself, 
she had quietly ignored for so long, that only a darting 
pain, which might attack her in the presence of Miss Annie, 
had compelled her to consult Dr. Smith. He was astonished 
at what she had suffered. 

“You do not deserve to have me tell you how for- 
tunate it is that after all we have nothing malignant 
to discover,” he told her. “But you will become 
really ill, helpless occasionally, if you do not take this 


At Miss Grace’s 


97 

in hand now.^’ Just after he had gone, Adelaide 
Maud called. She came to ask for money in con- 
nection with the church, but she stayed to talk over 
Miss Grace’s s)nnptoms. The grey shadow on Miss 
Grace’s face had alarmed her. 

“Aren’t you well. Miss Grace?” she asked sympatheti- 
cally. Then for the first time since Miss Annie had gone to 
bed. Miss Grace had given way and confessed what the 
trouble was to Adelaide Maud. 

It became astonishing to think how rapidly things could 
happen in so tiny and so slow a place. 

Here they were now, in a happy confidential trio, 
the moving inspirator that smart, garden party person, 
Adelaide Maud. 

The Leighton girls could not believe it. They had, 
with the exception of Lima, reached a hopeless con- 
dition with regard to the Story Books. The Dudgeons 
had so palpably shown themselves, even although 
graciously polite throughout, to be of so entirely differ- 
ent a set to the Leightons. None of the girls except 
Adelaide Maud had called. And after what Cuthbert 
had done! Elma certainly felt the difference that 
might occur where Miss Grace and Miss Annie were con- 
cerned. “Why haven’t we a footman and an odd 
man?” asked Jean viciously. “Then it would be 
all right.” 

Now came the invitation for Elma to go with Miss 
Grace. 

Both Mr. and Mrs. Leighton were greatly touched. 
Mr. Leighton put his hand on Elma’s shoulder. 

“When you can make yourself indispensable to 
your best friends, that is almost as great a thing as 

H 


98 The Story Book Girls 

playing the Moonlight Sonata without a mistake,’^ 
said he. 

But both Mrs. Leighton and he refused to let Elma 
go. They called on Miss Grace to explain. The fact 
that they had left Elma in a state of despair that 
bordered on rebellion made them more firm. 

“Elma is so young,” said Mrs. Leighton, “and so 
highly strung and sensitive, I can’t let her go with an 
easy mind. She has visited so seldom, and then in- 
variably lain awake at nights with the excitement. 
It wouldn’t be good for you. Miss Grace. I should 
have you both very much on my mind.” 

Adelaide Maud was there. 

“I see your point, Mrs. Leighton,” she said brightly. 
“But Elma knows Miss Grace so well, wouldn’t it be 
just like going with you or Mr. Leighton?” 

Mr. Leighton interposed. 

“It’s more for the sake of Miss Grace. She must 
have some one regarding whom she does not require 
to be anxious. Elma is a dreamy little being, and 
might turn home-sick in an hour, or frightened if Miss 
Grace were a little ill — anything might occur in that 
way.” 

“But she is nearly thirteen. Some day she must 
be cured of home-sickness, and Miss Grace will take 
her maid,” said Adelaide Maud. “Oh, Mr. Leighton, 
don’t hold in your daughters too much! It’s so hard on 
them later.” 

Adelaide Maud looked quite pathetic. 

“It isn’t so with all of them,” said Mrs. Leighton. 
“Jean is quite different. Jean can go anywhere.” 

Underneath Mrs. Leighton’s kind, loving ways lay 


At Miss Grace’s 


99 

a superb respect for the domineering manners of her 
second daughter. 

“I should never be afraid of Jean’s lying awake at 
night, or turning home-sick. She is much too sen- 
sible.” 

Miss Grace became impressed with the virtues of Jean. 

^‘Then Jean might come,” she proposed apolo- 
getically. 

Adelaide Maud could not forgive her. After having 
awakened that radiant look in Elma’s eyes, to weakly 
propose that she might take the robust Jean ! 

Mrs. Leighton’s eyes wandered to her husband. 

‘‘Jean grows so fast. Perhaps a change would do her 
good,” she suggested vaguely. 

“I should feel much more confident of Jean,” said he. 

So it was arranged. 

Elma never forgot it. She wept silently in her 
room, and accepted comfort from no one, not even her 
mother. 

“There is one thing, Jean oughtn’t to have said 
to mother she would go. She put that in her mind 
before mother went out. I knew it was all up then. 
Jean will always get what she wants, all her life, and I 
shall have to back out. Just because I can’t play 
sonatas without mistakes they think I cannot do any- 
thing.” 

Elma found Betty’s shoulder very comforting. 

A remark of Adelaide Maud’s rankled in Mr. Leigh- 
ton’s mind. He was not altogether happy at having to 
act the dragon to Elma in any case. Adelaide Maud had 
got him quietly by herself. 

“Don’t let little Elma begin giving up things to 

LOFC. 


lOO 


The Story Book Girls 

those sisters of hers too soon, Mr. Leighton. Un- 
selfishness is all very well. But look at the helpless 

thing it has made of Miss Grace.” 

Then she relented at sight of his face. 

“I’m almost as disappointed as Elma, you see,” 
she said radiantly. 

Mr. Leighton tried to put jt out of his mind, but 
Elma, sobbing in her bedroom, had at last reached a 
stage where she couldn’t pretend that nothing had 
hurt her, a stage where the feelings of other people 
might be reckoned not to count at all. It was an 

unusual condition for her to be in. She generally 

fought out her disappointments in secret. Her father 
came to her finally, and began smoothing her hair in 
a sad sort of way. 

“You aren’t looking on your own father as your 

worst enemy?” he asked her kindly. 

Elma’s sobs stopped abruptly. 

“I was,” she said abjectly. 

It was part of the sincerity of her nature that she 
immediately recognized where the case against her- 
self came in. 

“I’m sorry about Jean,” said Mr. Leighton. “It 
didn’t strike me at the time that it would be such a 
treat to either of you, you see. And we chose the one 
who seemed most fitted for going with Miss Grace.” 

“Mabel might have gone,” wailed Jean. 

Mabel ! Not for a moment had the claims of 
Mabel been mentioned. Mr. Leighton was completely 
puzzled. 

Elma in an honourable manner felt that probably 
she might be giving away Mabel to an unseeing par- 


At Miss Grace’s loi 

ent. Mabel wanted, oh very much, to stay at home, just 
then. 

“But of course lean wanted to go,” she said hurriedly, 
“more than MabeJdid.” 

“Some day you will all have your turn,” said Mr. 
Leighton consolingly. “I know it’s very dull being 
at home with your parents ! Isn’t it ?” 

Lima laughed a little. 

“It isn’t that,” she said, “but it would be lovely 
— in a hotel — with a maid, you know — of your own ! 
Such fun — seeing the people. And Miss Grace wanted 
me.” 

Mr. Leighton stroked her hair. 

“I liked her wanting you. I shall never forget that,” 
said he. 

“Oh!” Lima gave a little gulp of pleasure. This 
was worth a great deal. There was really nothing on 
earth like being complimented by one’s father. She 
sidled on Mr. Leighton’s knee and put her arms round his 
neck. He still stroked her hair. 

“You must remember that it isn’t only in hotels 
that you see life,” he said, “or on battle-fields that you 
fight battles. It’s here at home, where one appar- 
ently is only sheltered and dull. It’s always easy to get 
on for a day or two with new, or outside friends. 
But it’s your own people who count. Don’t make 
it disagreeable for Jean to go with Miss Grace.” His 
voice came in the nature of a swift command. After 
all, her mother and father had arranged it, and the con- 
sciousness came down on her of how she slighted those 
two, dearer than any, in being so rebellious. 

“I won’t,” said Lima. Quite a determined little 


102 


The Story Book Girls 


line settled at her quivering lips. “But I never felt so bad 
in my life.” 

“Oh well, we shall i ' ' ' ’ le about that,” 



said Mr. Leighton. 


more than a 


battle-field of victories could have done to see Lima 
come into her own again. 

“Do you think you could try the Moonlight Sonata 
now?” he asked abruptly, looking at his watch. 

It was his hobby that he must keep at least one 
girl at the piano in the evenings. 

“Not without a lot of mistakes,” said Elma. 

But she played better that night than she had ever 
done. 


CHAPTER X 


Compensations 

Miss Grace brought home a delicate silver purse and 
a silver chain set with turquoise matrix from Buxton for 
Elma. 

Mr. Leighton shook his head over the pretty gift. 

“Bribery and corruption,” said he. 

But by that time Elma’s soul had soared far above 
the heights or depths of triumph or pettiness in con- 
nection with the sojourn of Miss Grace. Life had been 
moving swiftly and wonderfully. Jean indeed came home 
from hotel life, full of stories of its inimitable attrac- 
tions; and nobody, although longing to be, had really 
been much impressed. Jean served to mark the mile- 
stone of their own development, that was all. She 
had left at one stage and come back at another. Where 
she had imagined their standing quite still, they had 
been travelling new roads, looking back on their child- 
ish selves with interest. 

Mabel and Elma had been thrown much together, 
and Mabel had grown to depend on the silent loyalty with 
which Elma invariably supported her in the try- 
ing time now experienced in connection with Mr. Mere- 
dith. Where Jean, bolt outright, complained that 
already Mabel had known him for a month or two, 

103 


104 The Story Book Girls 

and yet no hint of an engagement could be discovered, 
Elma sympathized with Mabel’s horror of any engagement 
whatever. 

“It would be lovely to have a ring, and all that kind 
of thing,” Mabel had confided. “But fancy having to 
talk to papa and mamma about it ! ” 

It did not impede her friendship with Mr. Meredith 
however. He had found a flower which he intended 
to pluck, and he guarded it to all intents and purposes 
as one from which he would warn off intruders. But 
the reserve which made Mabel sensitive in regard to 
anything definite, her extreme youth, above all the 
constant espionage of her parents and sisters, led him 
to a tacit understanding of his privileges, a situation ap- 
palling to the business-like Jean. 

“If I had had my hair up, I should have had two pro- 
posals at Buxton,” said she, and the remark became his- 
torical. 

Cuthbert put it in his notebook. Whenever he 
wanted to overcome the authority of Jean he produced 
and read it. She found her family a trifle trying on her 
arrival. She wanted to be able to inform them 
how they should dress, and had a score of other things 
ready to retail to them. Yet most of them fell quite flat, 
just as though she had had no special advantages in being 
at Buxton. 

Mr. and Mrs. Leighton talked this over together. 

“It makes me think,” said Mrs. Leighton, “that 
you are not altogether wrong in crowding them up at home 
here. Jean got variety, but she seems to have lost a little 
in balance.” 

“Still, that is just where experience teaches its 


Compensations 105 

lesson,” said Mr. Leighton. “To get balance, one must 
have the experience. Yet Mabel, in an unaccount- 
able manner, seems to be perfectly balanced before 
she has received any experience at all.” 

“Ah! I expect she will still have her experiences,” 
said Mrs. Leighton in her pessimistic way; “no girl 
gets along without some unpleasant surprise. Betty 
is longing for one. Betty complains that in story books 
something tragic or something wonderful happens to 
girls whenever they begin to grow up, but that nothing 
happens in this place. Nobody loses money — if you 
please — and nobody gets thrown out on the world in 
a pathetic manner to work for a living, for instance.” 

“Do they want to work for their living?” 

“They do want to be sensational,” said Mrs. Leighton 
with a sigh, “and as Elma says, ‘We are neither rich enough 
nor poor enough for that.’ ” 

“Thank providence,” said Mr. Leighton. 

His girls were much more of a problem to him than 
the direct Cuthbert, who had shown a capacity for 
going his own way rather magnificently from the 
moment he had left school. Mr. Leighton was determined 
to give his girls an object in life, besides the ordinary one 
of getting married. “There is great solace in the arts,” 
he had often affirmed, making it seem impossible 
that a girl should look on the arts as ends in them- 
selves, as a man would. “A girl must be trained 
to interruptions,” he used to declare. He made rather 
a drudge of their music in consequence of these theories 
in connection with a career, but the hard taskmaster 
in that direction opened a willing indulgence in almost 
any other. It alarmed him when Mr. Meredith 


io6 The Story Book Girls 

appeared so conspicuously on the scene, when Mr. Mere- 
dith’s sister called and invited Mabel to dine, when 
invitations crossed, until the Merediths and themselves 
became very very intimate. Elma had the wonderful 
pleasure of being allowed to accompany Mabel. In the 
absence of Jean, she fulfilled that sisterly position in a loyal 
way, loving the exaltation of going out with Mabel, be- 
coming very fond of the Merediths in the process. 
They had only recently come from town to live near 
the Gardiners, and the whole place did its duty in call- 
ing on them. There were only Mr. Meredith and his 
sister, and both were of the intensely interesting order 
rather than of the frank and lively nature of the like 
of the Leightons. Mr. Meredith sang, and Miss Mere- 
dith’s first words to Mabel were to the effect that he no 
longer wanted his sister to play for him after having had 
the experience of Mabel as an accompanist. 

“Aren’t you glad papa made us musical?” asked 
Betty of Mabel after that compliment. 

Mabel was glad in more ways than one. But it 
seemed a little hard that just then Mr. Leighton should 
insist on her going in for a trying examination in the 
spring. 

“When she ought to be getting the ‘bottom drawer’ 
ready,” complained poor Jean. 

Nothing moved for Jean in the family just as she 
expected. She began to wonder whether she shouldn’t 
go out as a governess. Jane Eyre had always enthralled 
her. It was one way of seeing life, to be very down- 
trodden, and then marry the magnificent overbearing 
hero. 

As a companion to Miss Grace, she had been a great 


Compensations 107 

success. Indeed, even Adelaide Maud was bound to 
confess that Jean had been just the person to go with 
Miss Grace. Jean, in spite of her Jane Eyre theories, 
was so down on self-effacement. Her frank direct 
ways were the best tonic for a lady who had never at 
any time been courageous. Miss Grace wrote con- 
tinually to Elma, “Jean has been very good in doing 
this — or that,” until Elma, swallowing hard lumps 
of mortification, had at last to believe that she never 
could have done these determined, cool-hearted things 
for Miss Grace in the same capable manner. She often 
wondered besides whether, even to have had the delight 
of being at Buxton, she could have dropped the glamour 
of finding a new sister in Mabel, and of being the daily 
companion of Adelaide Maud. For the time had 
now come, when, on being shown into Miss Annie’s 
drawing-room, her duke, clean-shaven and of modern 
manners, had ceased to be really diverting, and in 
fact often forgot to attend to her in the pause when 
she awaited the coming of Adelaide Maud. 

Adelaide Maud kept her word. She reigned as vice- 
queen over Miss Annie’s household, indulging that lady 
in all her little whims, for Miss Grace’s sake, and never 
omitted a single day for calling and seeing that Miss 
Annie was comfortable. Adelaide Maud had theories 
of her own. She said that every one in Ridgetown 
attended to the poor, but that she believed in attend- 
ing to the rich. 

“Now who would ever have looked after Miss Grace 
if we hadn’t?” she asked Elma. 

Mrs. Dudgeon imagined she had other reasons for 
being so devoted to Miss Annie, and considered that 


io8 The Story Book Girls 

Helen wasted her time in applying so much of it to 
a bedridden invalid. 

“Whom do you see there she asked stonily. 

“Principally Saunders,” said Helen, whose good 
temper was unassailable. “Saunders is a duck.” 

The “duck,” however, was a trifle worried with 
these changes, “not having been accustomed to sich 
for nigh on twenty-five years, mum,” as he explained 
to Mrs. Leighton. 

But the great boon lay in the restored health of Miss 
Grace. She came home shyly as ever, but with a fresh 
bloom on her face. What withered hopes that trip 
recalled to life, what memories of sacrificial days gone 
by, what fears laid past — who knows! She was very 
gentle with Miss Annie, and boasted of none of her 
late advantages as Jean did. Indeed, one might have 
thought that the events of the world had as usual 
taken place in Miss Annie’s bedroom. But, with a 
courage born of new health and better spirits. Miss 
Grace called one day on Dr. Merryweather. In a grace- 
ful manner, as though the event had only occurred, she 
apologized to him for the slight offered by Miss Annie. 

“I hope you know that you still have our supreme 
confidence,” she said. “It was your kind interest 
which persuaded me to go to Buxton.” 

Dr. Merryweather seemed much affected. He shook 
her hand several times, but his voice remained gruff as 
she had always remembered and slightly feared it. 

“You must be exceedingly careful of yourself. Miss 
Grace,” he said bluntly; “Miss Annie has had too much 
of you.” 

Too much of her. Ah, well, she could never reproach 


Compensations 109 

herself for having spared an inch of her patience, an 
atom of her slender strength. 

“Remember,” said Dr. Merryweather, “courage 
does not all lie in self-sacrifice, though” — and he looked 
long at the kind beautiful eyes of Miss Grace — “a 
great deal of it is invested there.” 

He held her hand warmly for a second again, and 
that was the end of it. Miss Grace went home fortified 
to a second edition of her life with Miss Annie. 

Adelaide Maud gave up her semi-suzerainty over the 
masterful Saunders with some real regret. It was fun 
for her to be engaged in anything which did not entail 
mere social engagements. Miss Annie liked her thor- 
oughly, liked the swirl of her tweed skirts, the dainti- 
ness of her silk blouses, the gleam of her golden hair. 
Adelaide Maud had straight fine features, pretty mauve 
eyes (“They are mauve, my dear, no other word 
describes them,” she declared), very clearly arched eye- 
brows, and “far too determined a chin.” “Where did 
you get your chin?” asked Miss Annie continually. 

“My father had the face of an angel. It wasn’t 
from him,” said Adelaide Maud. “I have my mother 
to thank for my chin.” 

“Well, Heaven help the man who tries to cross you, 
my dear,” said Miss Annie, who had a very capable chin 
of her own, as it happened. The tired petulant look of 
the invalid only showed at the droop to the corners of 
her mouth. 

Elma could no longer interest Adelaide Maud in 
Cuthbert. It seemed as though he had no further exist- 
ence. Until one day when she told her that Cuthbert 
had an appointment which would last throughout 


no 


The Story Book Girls 



the summer, and keep him tied to town. Then the 
chin of Adelaide Maud seemed to resolve itself into less 
chilly lines. 

“Oh, won’t you miss him?” she suddenly asked. 

Adelaide Maud was the most comprehending person. 
She pulled Elma to her and kissed her when Elma said 
that it wasn’t “missing,” it simply wasn’t “living” 
without Cuthbert. 

“I’m so sorry you quarrelled with him,” she said to 
Adelaide Maud. 

Adelaide Maud grew stonily angry. 

“Quarrel with him?” she asked. 

It reminded Elma of the Dudgeons’ first call. 

“Oh, please don’t,” she cried in alarm. 

“Then I won’t,” said Adelaide Maud, “but will 
you kindly inform me when I quarrelled with your 
brother Cuthbert?” 

It was exactly in the tone of one who would never 
think of quarrelling with the Leighton set. Elma 
grew quite pale, then her courage rose. 

“He thinks such a lot of you, and you don’t think 
anything of him. Just as though we weren’t good 
enough !” 

“Oh, Elma,” said Adelaide Maud. 

“And he likes you, and keeps things you drop, and 
you won’t even speak to him.” 

“Keeps things I drop!” 

JThe murder was out. 

■y “Oh, I promised not to tell, how awful.” 

Adelaide Maud grew very dignified. 

“What did I drop? Oh! I think I remember — my 
handkerchief ! ” 


Compensations 1 1 1 

Mrs. Dudgeon had reflected openly on the fact that 
it had never been returned to Helen. 

“I wanted to keep it till we saw you again, but he 
said he would give it to you when you were nice to him, 
or something like that.” 

“Till I was nice to him!” The chin dimpled a 
trifle. “ Somehow, I would rather he kept it,” said Adelaide 
Maud dreamily. 

“Shall I tell him that?” asked Elma anxiously. 

“Tell him — what nonsense. You mustn’t tell him 
a syllable. You mustn’t say you’ve told me. It 

would be so ignominious for him to hear that I know 
him to have been thieving 1 Thieving is the word,” 
said Adelaide Maud. Although she talked in a very 
accusing manner, her voice seemed kind. 

“Mayn’t I tell him you didn’t mean to quarrel?” 
asked Elma anxiously. “You don’t know what you 

are to all of us.” 

Here she sighed deeply. 

“No,” said Adelaide Maud, “we mustn’t tell him 

anything. I think he must just wait as he suggested, 
until I am nice to him.” 

“Until you deserved it, he said,” cried Elma, tri- 
umphantly, remembering properly at last. “I knew 
it was something like that” 

“Then he may wait until he is a hundred,” said 

Adelaide Maud with her face in a flame. 

It was difficult after this ever to talk to Adelaide Maud 
about Cuthbert with any kind of freedom or pleasure. 

Elma went home that evening in the bewilderment 
of an early sunset. Bright rays turned the earth goldefl, , ^ 
the leaves on the trees laid themselves flat in heavy 


I 12 


The Story Book Girls 

blobs of green in yellow sunlight, the sky faded to a 
glimmering blue in the furthermost east. A shower 
of rain fell from a drifting cloud and the drops hit in 
large splotches, first on, Elma’s hat, on her hand, and 
then in an indefinite manner stopped. As she turned 
into her own garden, the White House seemed flooded 
in a golden glow of colour. 

Then at last they heard thunder in the distance. 

Elma never forgot that shining picture, nor the 
thunder in the distance. It seemed the picture of 
what life might be, beautiful and safe in one’s own 
home, thunder only in the distance. The threatening 
did not alarm her, but the remembrance of it always re- 
mained with her. When thunder really began to 
peal for the Leighton family, she tried to be thankful 
for the picture of gold. 


CHAPTER XI 


The Split Infinitive 

Guests at the Leightons’ were divided into two classes. 
There were those who were friends of Mr. Leighton, 
and who therefore were interested in art, or literature, 
or science, or public enterprise, but were not expected 
to go further; and there were those who came in a 
general way and who might be expected to be interested 
in anything from a game of tennis to a tea party. Of 
the first might be reckoned the like of Mr. Sturgis, who 
painted pictures in a magnificent manner, and who, 
at the end of a large cigar, would breathe the heresies 
on the teaching of art which for ever paralyzed the 
artistic abilities of Elma. Mr. Sturgis was quite young 
enough for an Aunt Katharine public to quote his 
eligibility on all occasions. 

“You don’t understand, Aunt Katharine,” Mabel 
told her once. “Nobody seems to understand that 
a man, even a young man, may adore papa without 
having to adore us at the same time. Mr. Sturgis is 
quite different from your kind of young man.” 

“Different from Robin, I suppose?” sighed Aunt 
Katharine. 

“Yes, quite different from Robin,” said Mabel 
sedately. Robin had certainly from the first put Mr. 
I 113 


1 14 The Story Book Girls 

Leighton into the position of being his daughter’s 
father. Mr. Sturgis, on the other hand, found his first 
friend in Mr. Leighton because he had such a nice, 
discriminating, and most sympathetic enthusiasm for 
Art. Besides which Mr. Leighton had the attributes 
of an exceptional man in various respects. 

The girls put Mr. Sturgis on the same high plane 
as their father and admired him openly accordingly. 
But there were others whom they put on this plane by 
reason of their accomplishments and yet did not admire 
at all. 

Amongst these was the “Split Infinitive.” 

The first call on the part of Professor Theo. Clutter- 
buck was one never to be forgotten. He found a room- 
ful of people who, so far as his own attitude to them 
was concerned, might have been so many pieces of 
furniture. Mr. Sturgis had at least the artist’s dis- 
crimination which made him observe one’s appearance, 
and he also allowed one to converse occasionally; 
but Dr. Clutterbuck rushed his one subject at Mr. 

Leighton from the moment of his entrance, and after 
that no one else existed. 

“What more or less could you expect from the father 
of the Serpent?” asked Betty. 

Lance was responsible for the nickname. 

The Serpent, an elf-like daughter of the Professor, 
staying next to the Turbervilles, had introduced her- 

self in a violent manner long ago to Betty and Elma. 
Sitting one day, hidden high in the maple tree, she 

cajoled her cat silently over the Turberville wall and 

from a wide branch sent him sprawling on a tea table. 
From the moment that the black cat drew a white 


115 


The Split Infinitive 

paw from the cream jug, and a withering giggle from 
the maple tree disclosed the wicked little visage of the 
Serpent, war had been declared between the Clutter- 
bucks and the Turbervilles. Lance occasionally re- 
moved the barrier and met the Professor in company 
with his own father. 

“An awful crew,” his verdict ran. “The Past 
Participle (Mrs. Clutterbuck) can’t open her poor 
little timid mouth but the Split Infinitive is roaring at 
her. Consequently she keeps as silent as the grave.” 

“Will you kindly explain?” said Mrs. Leighton 
patiently. “It’s a long time since I studied grammar 
in that intimate way. What is the Split Infinitive, 
and why the Past Participle?” 

“It’s like this, Mrs. Leighton, simple when you 
know — or when you are married to a brute like Clutter- 
buck,” said Lance mischievously. “I beg your pardon. 
I know I ought to say that he is a genius and all that sort 
of thing. But ‘brute’ seems more explicit.” 

“ Go on with your story,” said Mrs. Leighton. 

“Well — Clutterbuck married Mrs. Clutterbuck.” 

“That’s generally the end of a story, isn’t it?” asked 
Jean. 

Lance was not to be interrupted. 

“Trust a boy for gossip,” exclaimed Betty. “Fire 
away, Lance.” 

“My aunt knew them,” said Lance. “She, Mrs. 
C., was a little dear, awfully pink and pretty, you 
know, and Clutterbuck, a big raw thin thing with wild 
sort of hair and dreamy manners. Well, they were 
awfully proud and pleased with themselves, and started 
off for their honeymoon like two happy babies.” 


1 1 6 The Story Book Girls 

“Will you kindly tell me how you knew this?’’ asked 
Mrs. Leighton helplessly. 

“I heard my aunt telling my mother,” said Lance. 

“There’s a gleam in your eye which I don’t quite 
trust,” Elma remarked sedately. “Go on.” 

“Everything went well,” exclaimed Lance, “until 
one morning when Mrs. C., all rosy and chiffony, 
you know, said ‘My dear Theo, I don’t remember 
to ever have been so happy.’ Clutterbuck rose from 
the table, as pale as death. She cried, ‘Theo, Theo, 
tell me, what is wrong?’ ‘Wrong,’ cried Professor 
Clutterbuck, ‘you have used the Split Infinitive!’ 
Gospel, Mrs. Leighton,” said Lance as a wind-up. 
“She’s been the Past Participle ever since.” 

There was this amount of truth in Lance’s story : 
that Dr. Clutterbuck was distinguished in his own 
career as Professor of Geology, that his English was 
irreproachable; and that Mrs. Clutterbuck had practi- 
cally no English, since she was hardly ever known to 
speak at all. She shunned society; and the same 
introspective gaze of the Professor, which had skimmed 
the Leighton drawing-room and found there only the 
striking personality of Mr. Leighton, skimmed his 
own home in a like abstracted manner, and took no 
notice of the most striking personality in Ridgetown 
— Elsie, his daughter. 

It was the black cat episode which precipitated 
the nickname of “The Serpent.” Lance had always 
declared that this girl had an understanding with 
animals which was nothing short of uncanny. He 
happened to read Elsie Venner, and the names being 
alike, and temperament on similar lines, he immedi- 


The Split Infinitive 1 1 7 

ately christened her the Serpent. He caught her 
out at numberless pranks which were never reported 
to the diligent ears of Betty and May. One was that 
she had climbed to his bedroom and purloined a suit 
of clothes. 

There was no end to what might be expected of 
this lonely little person. 

Years ago, Betty and May had turned their backs 
on her in the cruel haphazard manner of two friends 
who might easily dispose of an outsider. Betty and 
May despised the Serpent because she “had a cheap 
governess,’^ “couldn’t afford to go to school,” and 
“wore her hair in one plait.” 

The lonely little Serpent never properly forgave 
these insults. 

Mrs. Leighton did not wholly encourage Lance in 
his tale. 

“I do not think I approve of your being so down 
on these people,” she said: “and if there is any truth 
in what you say, it is very tragic about poor Mrs. 
Clutterbuck, though she does not strike me as being 
a very capable person.” 

“Capable,” asked Lance. “Who could remain 
capable, Mrs. Leighton, with a cold tap continually 
running freezing remarks down one’s back? Don’t 
you think it’s a miracle she’s alive?” 

Mrs. Leighton preferred to remain on her smooth 
course of counsel. 

“It never does to judge people like that,” she ex- 
claimed. “You do not know. To put it in a selfish 
manner, one day you may find the Clutterbucks being 
of more service to you than any one on earth.” 


1 1 8 The Story Book Girls 

She pulled at her knitting ball. 

“You girls talk a great deal of romance and non- 
sense about people like the Dudgeons. Why don’t 
you think something nice about that poor little Ser- 
pent for a change?” 

The girls remembered not very long afterwards the 
prophetic nature of these remarks. That they should 
cultivate the Clutterbucks for any reason at all, how- 
ever, seemed at that moment impossible. 

Dr. Merryweather called the same afternoon. 

It was one of the coincidences of life that he should 
immediately talk of the Clutterbucks. 

“Know them?” he asked. “I think your husband 
does, doesn’t he? Do you call on the wife at all?” 

“No,” answered Mrs. Leighton. “I never feel 
that I could get on with her very well either. Mr. 
Leighton meets the Professor and they talk a lot to- 
gether, but it’s quite away from domestic matters.” 

“It would be a bit of a kindness, I think,” said the 
old Doctor; “your calling, I mean. There’s too little 
public spirit amongst women, don’t you think?” 

“Oh, wouldn’t it be a little impertinent perhaps 
to call, in that spirit?” asked Mrs. Leighton. 

“Well, I don’t know. The child is running wild. 
The parents are a pair of babies where healthy educa- 
tion is concerned. Result, the child has no friends, 
and expends her affection — she has stores of it — on her 
animals. A dog gets run over and dies. What do 
you get then ? She never squeaks. Not a moan, 
you observe. But she sits up in that tree of hers 
with a cat to do any comforting she may want — and 
her hair begins to come out in patches.” 


The Split Infinitive 119 

Mrs. Leighton’s knitting fell to her lap. 

“Her hair is coming out in patches?” she jasked in 
a horrified voice. 

“Yes. What else would you have when a child 
is allowed to mope? Something is bound to happen. 
Clergymen are of use when a child’s naughty. But 
when it mopes itself ill, we are called in. Yet it’s a 
clergyman’s task after all. This child, on the way 
to being a woman, has never had one friend. Her 
mother is too timid to be really friendly with any one, 
and the husband is wrapped in his dry-as-dust phi- 
losophy — and where are you with a tender child like 
that?” 

“But if Mrs. Clutterbuck can’t be friendly with 
any one, why should I call?” asked Mrs. Leighton 
hopelessly. 

“Your girls might become friendly with the child,” 
said he. “I’m afraid I don’t make a very good clergy- 
man.” 

“They call her the Serpent, you know,” said Mrs. 
Leighton; “very naughty of them. I shall do my 
best. Doctor. I didn’t know her hair was coming 
out in patches.” 

Dr. Merryweather might be complimented on his 
new profession after all. It had been a master stroke 
to refer to the patches. Mrs. Leighton had known 
of it happening after illness or great worry. That 
a child should suffer in this quiet moping manner 
seemed pathetic. 

“Yet, I don’t think I’m the person to do a thing 
of this sort,” Mrs. Leighton said hopelessly to Miss 
Meredith later in the day. “I do so object to intrude 


I 20 


The Story Book Girls 

on people. I should imagine it indelicate of any one 
else to do the same to myself, you know.’’ 

“Very awkward, certainly,” replied Miss Meredith 
primly. 

“Oh, mummy,” said Elma, “you know how kind 
Miss Grace is or Miss Annie. They say ‘Isn’t Betty 
a little pale at present?’ and you get her a tonic. 
You think nothing of that. It’s just the same with 
the Clutterbucks. Betty ought to behave herself and 
go and call with you, and get the Serpent to come. 
I think she looks a jolly little thing.” 

Elma was quite alone in that opinion. 

“Jolly!” said Jean, “you might as well talk of a toad- 
stool’s being jolly. Still, Betty isn’t a child. She 
shouldn’t be squabbling. Betty ought to call.” 

“You know Dr. Clutterbuck, wouldn’t you call on 
his wife?” asked Mrs. Leighton of Miss Meredith. 

“Oh, I’m afraid I don’t know him well enough. 
Robin rather dislikes him — and, well, we have no 
young people, you see.” 

Miss Meredith was lame but definite. 

“Then the sooner the better. Betty and I call 
to-morrow,” said Mrs. Leighton. 

They did, and to their astonishment found Mrs. 
Clutterbuck dimly but surely pleased. Nobody remained 
timid very long in Mrs. Leighton’s kind presence, and 
the mutual subject of days long ago when it was no 
crime to talk of babies, broke the ice of years of 
reserve in Ridgetown with Mrs. Clutterbuck. The 
Serpent, after many pilgrimages on the part of the 
one maid to the garden, finally appeared. Mrs. Clutter- 
buck’s restraint returned with the evident unwilling- 


I2I 


The Split Infinitive 

ness of Elsie’s attitude. Both retreated to the dumb 
condition so trying to onlookers. 

The Serpent indeed paid Betty out for many months 
of torture. Her calm, disconcerting gaze never wavered, 
as she watched every movement of that ready enemy. 
Mrs. Leighton made her only mistake in showing 
definitely that she wanted to be kind to Elsie. That 
little lady’s pale visage looked fiercely out at her and 
chilled the words that were intended to come 

It was, as Betty described it, a most ^‘terrifying 
interview.” 

In the midst of it came a telegram to Mrs. Clutter- 
buck. 

“Oh, you will excuse me,” said she nervously. “We 
are expecting a friend.” 

During the interval of opening the envelope Elsie 
disappeared. It had the effect of warming Mrs. 
Clutterbuck to confidences once more. 

“It is a great pleasure to me,” said she. “My 
young cousin is coming. He is quite a distinguished 
man. All Dr. Clutterbuck’s people are distinguished, 
but my family are different. Except Arthur, whom 
Dr. Clutterbuck is quite pleased to meet. He is com- 
ing to-night.” 

She called the maid. 

“Tell Miss Elsie it is the 5.40 train. Mr. Symington 
comes then.” 

She had a halting, staccato way of picking her small 
sentences, as though insecure of their effect. 

“People enjoy coming to Ridgetown,” said Mrs. 
Leighton lamely, in the endeavour to keep the wheels 
of conversation oiled more securely. 


122 


The Story Book Girls 

‘‘Do they?” asked the Professor’s wife. Then she 
stammered a trifle. “A — a — that is — I have never 
had a visitor in Ridgetown till now. Dr. Clutter- 
buck does not care for visitors. Arthur is different 
from what others have been, I hope.” 

She seemed full of anxiety. 

“Oh, I gave up long ago trying to please Mr. Leigh- 
ton with my visitors,” said Mrs. Leighton heartily 
and quite untruthfully. “Husbands must take their 
chance of that, you know.” She rose to go. 

“Please tell Dr. Clutterbuck he is never again to 
come to see us without you,” she said, “and won’t 
Elsie come to tea one day?” 

On their departure Mrs. Clutterbuck turned to find 
a blazing little fury in the doorway. 

“Mother,” cried Elsie, “Mother! How could you! 
I shall never go to tea with Betty Leighton.” 

Her mother turned two eyes full of light on her. 
The light slowly died to dull patience again. 

“We shall go down together to meet cousin 
Arthur,” she said quietly. It seemed as though her 
bright thoughts must turn to drab colour auto- 
matically where cither her husband or child was con- 
cerned. 

It was characteristic of Elsie that, although blazing 
with wild anger and wicked little intentions, she should 
be unable to give voice to them at that moment. The 
inevitable obstinacy of her mother where the routine 
of the house was concerned, the drab colour of the 
one day which was invariably like the other, the cruel, 
cruel sameness of it all ! It was impossible that 
Cousin Arthur should not be drab colour also. 


The Split Infinitive 123 

“I’d rather remain here,” she said at last. There 
was even some pleading in her tone. 

“Your father said we had better meet Cousin Arthur,” 
said her mother. 

That was the remorseless end and beginning to 
everything. “Your father said” meant days and 
weeks and years of drab colour. 

“Oh, let us go then,” said Elsie. There was a 
drowning hopelessness in her voice, so great an empti- 
ness that it was hard to believe she had merely used 
the words — “Let us go then.” 

Her mother accepted the answer without the sigh 
which burned in her heart because it had no outlet. 

They proceeded to get ready to go out. 

Mrs. Leighton and Betty by this time were chatting 
easily enough at the Merediths’. Mrs. Leighton had 
the feeling of an inexperienced general after a very 
indefinite victory. 

“I do not possess the talent of inflicting myself • 
gracefully on people,” she said, “and the child is quite 
extraordinary. However, I liked the mother; she is 
a dear little woman.” 

Miss Meredith was only partially interested. 

She arranged to walk home with them, and they set 
out in rather a low manner. 

“I can quite believe the child would be different in 
other surroundings,” said Mrs. Leighton. “What a 
fine-looking man!” The one remark ran into the 
other automatically. In later days it seemed pro- 
phetic that the two people should be mentioned in one 
breath as it were. 

Mrs. Leighton v/as passing the station where arrivals 


124 


The Story Book Girls 

from the train occurred. A cab was drawn up, and into 
this a sunburned, athletic-looking young man put 
some traps. Then he handed in Mrs. Clutterbuck 
and Elsie. 

Betty was greatly impressed. 

“It must be Mr. Symington,” said she. 

“Well, for a timid lady, she has a very man-like cousin,” 
exclaimed Mrs. Leighton. “I don’t wonder she was 
allowed that one visitor at least.” 

Miss Meredith turned her head carefully to a more 
slanting angle, when she clearly saw the carriage drive 
past. 

“Do you know, Mrs. Leighton,” she said quite 
nimbly and happily, “it seems very hard that she 
should not have all the visitors she wants. Dr. Merry- 
weather is quite right. None of us have any public 
spirit. I think I shall call on her to-morrow.” 

So Miss Meredith also called on Mrs. Clutterbuck. 


CHAPTER XII 

The Burglar 

That Miss Meredith should turn in a moment from 
being freezingly uninterested in the Professor’s wife, 
to being more friendly than any one else, seemed from 
one point of view very noble and distinguished, from 
another puzzling and peculiar. 

“It’s a little dis-disconcerting,” said Elma at Miss 
Grace’s. “We were so pleased at first when Miss 
Meredith pointed out our talents to us. Now she is 
pointing out Mrs. Clutterbuck’s. And you know, last 
week, we didn’t think Mrs. Clutterbuck had any talents 
at all.” 

“Ah — that is one of our little tragedies,” said Miss 
Grace simply. “That we are obliged to outlive the 
extravagance of new friends.” 

“Do you think Miss Meredith won’t keep it up 
where we are concerned?” asked Elma anxiously. “It 
would be a little sad if she didn’t, wouldn’t it? Like 
deceiving us to begin with; and now she may be deceiving 
Mrs. Clutterbuck.” 

“ Oh, I don’t know. She may work wonders with 
the Professor. It must be pure goodness that prompts 
her, dear.” 


*25 


126 


The Story Book Girls 

‘‘She must be used to being taken coldly,” said 
Elma. “The Professor glares at her, and Elsie charges 
straight out to the back garden every time she 
calls.” 

“Is Mr. Symington there now?” asked Miss Grace. 

“No, he left in two days. Papa was charmed with 
him. He and the Professor and papa had an evening 
together when we were all at the Gardiners, and Mrs. 
Clutterbuck came too. Papa says Mr. Symington 
will make a name for himself one day. He is coming 
back to Ridgetown for a summer, some time soon, he 
liked it so much.” 

If only for the sudden interest taken by the Mere- 
diths in the Clutterbucks, it seemed necessary that 
they should become very much a part of the Leightons’ 
life just then. But nothing could thaw the demeanour 
of Elsie. Dr. Merry weather found her improved slightly, 
but there were signs that she fretted inordinately. 
Nothing she did was what other girls did, and she 
was quite beyond the abstracted influences of her 
parents. 

Adelaide Maud met the Professor. 

“I hear you have a perfect little duck of a daughter,” 
said she airily. 

“Ha, hm,” exclaimed the Professor, quite irrespon- 
sible in the matter of English for the moment. He 
had no real words for such a situation. 

“Aren’t you awfully proud of her?” asked Adelaide 
Maud. 

The Professor recovered. That word “awfully,” it 
made him forget this new version of his daughter. 

“So you are also in this conspiracy?” whispered 


The Burglar 


127 

Lance afterwards to Adelaide Maud. ^‘It’s no good. 
A bomb under that fanatic is all that will move 
him.” 

But in the meantime Elsie made some moves for 
herself. 

The Leightons were interested in their own affairs. 
Cuthbert was away, and Mr. Leighton had to make 
a run to London. He took Mabel with him and that 
occurrence was exciting enough in itself. As though 
to show up the helplessness of a family left without 
a man in the house, however, one night the maids 
roused every one in alarm. A burglar, it seems, was 
trying to get in at the pantry window. The girls, 
who were getting ready for bed, went quaking to their 
mother’s room. Very frightened and most carefully 
they made their way to the vicinity of the pantry. 
There was certainly to be heard a faint shuffling. 

‘‘See’d him as plain as day. Miss, leaning up against 
the window. He moved some flower pots, and stood 
on ’em.” 

‘‘Lock the kitchen door, telephone for the police, 
and light the gas,” said Jean in a strained whis- 
per. 

She immediately obeyed her own orders by telephoning 
herself in a quick deep undertone, “Man at the pantry 
window trying to get in.” 

Then she took the taper from the shaking hands of 
Betty. 

“I’ve read in Home Notes or somewhere that when 
burglars appear, if you light up they get frightened and 
go away.” 

They had roused Aunt Katharine, who had come as 


128 The Story Book Girls 

company for a night or two and had gone to bed at 
half-past nine. 

“What’s the good of frightening them if you’ve 
sent for the police?” asked Aunt Katharine. “Better 
let them get caught red-handed.” She invariably ob- 
jected to being roused from her first sleep. 

“Oh, goodness,” wailed Betty. “It sounds like 
murder.” She felt quite thrilled. 

The maids cowered shivering in the passage. 

“I heard them flower pots again. Miss. ’E’s either 
got in or — ’e’s ” 

They distinctly heard the pantry window move. 

“Well, the door between is locked,” said the quiet 
voice of Mrs. Leighton, “and the police ought to be 
here very soon now.” 

Jean took the curlers out of her hair. 

“I wish they would hurry up,” said she. 

Lima got under Aunt Katharine’s eiderdown. 

“I may as well die warm,” she remarked with her 
teeth chattering. 

There was not much inclination to jokes however, 
and Lima’s speech was touched with a certain abandon- 
ment of fear. The situation was very trying. When 
the police did arrive and ran at a quick, stealthy run 
to the pantry window, they waited in terror for the 
expected shuffle and outcry. 

“It’s really awful,” whispered Betty, clinging in 
despair to her mother. 

“I can’t think why they are so quiet,” said 
Mrs. Leighton. “I think I must open the kitchen 
door.” 

“Oh, ma’am, please, ma’am.” Cook at last 


The Burglar 


1 29 

became hysterical. “Don’t move that door, ma’am; 
we’ve had scare enough. Let ’em catch ’em them- 
selves.” 

Betty sat down on the stairs and leant her head on 
her hands. 

“They must be arresting them,” she said, “with 
handcuffs. And papa said they always have to read 
over the charge. They must be reading over the charge 
now, I think.” 

“In the dark!” said Aunt Katharine with a certain 
eloquent sniff. 

“They have lanterns, dark lanterns. Isn’t it beauti- 
ful?” said Betty. 

She rose in her white dressing-gown. 

“Listen,” said she. 

The door-bell suddenly clanged. Every one screamed 
except Mrs. Leighton. 

“I do wish you would keep quiet,” said she. “The 
police will think we are being murdered.” She moved 
to the door. But again she was arrested by piercing 
directions. 

“Talk to them at the window, mummy. They 
might be the burglars themselves. How are we to 
know? Do talk at the window.” 

“I’m extremely cold,” said Mrs. Leighton, “and 
I’d rather ask them in whoever they are, than talk to them 
at an open window.” 

By the time she had finished, however, Jean, the 
valiant, had the window open and had discovered a 
policeman. They had “scoured the premises,” he 
said, and no thief was to be found. Mrs. Leighton wrapped 
herself in an eiderdown quilt. 


K 


130 The Story Book Girls 

‘‘Will you come in, please, and open my kitchen door? 
Cook thinks they may be there,” she said. 

With deep thankfulness they let in the policeman. 
A sergeant appeared. He was very sympathetic and 
reassuring. “Best not to proceed too quickly,” he said 
in a fat, slow way. “I have a man still outside watch- 
ing. So if ’e’s ’ere. Miss, we’ll catch ’im either 
way. A grand thing the telephone.” 

He unlocked the door, and thoroughly investigated 
the kitchen. 

“No signs,” said he, “no signs.” 

The Leightons recovered some of their lost dignity 
and crowded in. Only Jean however had the satis- 
faction of hair in order and curlers discarded. How 
brave of Jean to remember at that dreadful moment of 
burglars in the house! 

The sergeant had gas lighted and looked extremely 
puzzled. 

“’E’s been ’ere right enough,” said he. “Window 
open right enough. Was it fastened?” 

He turned about, but the chief evidence had departed. 
With the advent of the policeman, cook and retinue 
had suddenly remembered their costumes. Like rab- 
bits they had scuttled, first into the larder for cover, 
then into their own rooms where they donned cos- 
tumes more suitable for such impressive visitors. 
Mrs. Leighton’s eye twinkled when she found cook 
appear in hastily found dress. 

“Did you leave the window unfastened. Cook?” 
she asked. 

Cook was sure. “It was a thing as ’ow I never 
forgot, ma’am, but this one night ” 


The Burglar 


131 

Well, there seemed to be some uncertainty. 

Elma’s eyes during this were straying continually 
to a piece of notepaper lying on a table. First she 
thought “It is some letter belonging to the maids.” Then 
an impelling idea that the white paper had some 
other meaning forced her to pick it up. Every other 
person was engaged in watching the search of the 
sergeant and listening to his words. 

“Some one has been right in this ’ere kitchen. It’s 
the doors and windows unlatched that do it. Many 
a time since I’ve been here as sergeant, I’ve said to 
myself, ‘We’ll ’ave trouble yet over these unlatched 
windows.’” 

“We have been so safe,” complained Mrs. Leighton. 
“The poor people here too — so respectable and hard- 
working ! ” 

“Drink, ma’am, drink,” said the sergeant dismally, 
“you never know what it will do to a man.” 

He turned his lantern in his fat fingers. 

“Oh,” said Aunt Katharine with a sudden gasp, 
“I could stand a plain thief, hungry, maybe, but 
master of himself. But a drunk man — it’s dread- 
ful.” 

She shivered and looked into corners as though one 
of the thieves might be asleep there. The sergeant 
and his companion made a thorough search of the 
house. 

None of them noticed Elma, who sat as though cast 
in an eternal shiver and who surreptitiously read the 
scrap of notepaper. 

“The Trail.” That was all that was written in words, 
but nimbly drawn on a turned-back corner was a snaky, 


132 The Story Book Girls 

sinuous serpent. It had the eyes and the accusing 
glare of the expression of Elsie. 

Elma wondered how far she might be right in 
keeping that document while the fat sergeant followed 
up his cues, and described the burglar. He was 
six feet at least, it seemed, to have got in at the 
window where he did. “Flower pots, or no flower 
pots, no smaller man could have done it.” “Fool,” 
thought Elma. “Elsie, who can climb a drain pipe, 
drop from a balcony, skim walls. Elsie has a way of 
which he doesn’t know.” 

One thought that ran through her mind was the 
wickedness of any one’s having called Elsie by such a 
name as the Serpent, and the tragedy of her having 
found it out. There was some excuse for this latest, 
wickedest prank of all. The daring of Elsie con- 
fused her. What girl would be so devoid of fear as 
to move out at eleven at night and act the burglar ? None 
of their set had the pluck for it, to put it in the 
baldest way. The idea that she might have been 
caught by the fat sergeant appalled Elma. She saw 
the scornful, wilful eyes of the Serpent dancing. Would 
she care? Yet she was the girl who had moped for 
the death of her dog till “her hair came out in patches.” 

She was still staring at the trail of the Serpent when 
the sergeant had finished his “tour of safety.” After 
all, it might not have been a prank of Elsie’s. It 
might have been a six-foot burglar. This accusing 
serpent — well, one couldn’t go on a thing of that sort. 
It would be so amusing too that they were had practically 
out of bed in such a panic. Aunt Katharine looked 
very worn and disturbed. She would never forgive a 


133 


The Burglar 

practical joke. Elma held the paper tight, and down in 
her sympathetic, plaintive little soul felt she could never 
accuse a fly, far less a sensitive wicked little mischief like 
Elsie Clutterbuck. 

She could not help laughing at themselves. But 
after all, who was looking after that wild child now? 
She nearly asked the sergeant to make his way home by 
the side lane by which she now knew Elsie had come. 
Then the certainty that this self-satisfied person with 
his six-foot burglar would never make anything of this 
slippery fearless little elf burglar kept her silent. 

The sergeant finished his tour with great impressive- 
ness. They were informed they might safely go to bed. 
A man or two would be about to see that no one was 
hanging round at all. It was very ridiculous to Elma. 

“After all,” remarked the sergeant, “you are very 
early people. It is only eleven o’clock now. Hardly 
the dead of night, ma’am ! ” 

“We are generally less early of course,” said Mrs. 
Leighton, “but we were alone to-night. Mr. Leighton 
and my son are away.” 

“Ah, bad,” remarked the sergeant. “It looks as 
though our friend had an inkling to that effect.” 

Elma thought the interview would never be over. 

It was best to say nothing, or Mrs. Leighton would 
have had the town searched for Elsie. It was best in 
every way to crumple tight that incriminating paper 
and wonder why in the wide world Elsie had done it. 

She met the Serpent the following day. There was 
an impish, happy look of mischief on that usually savage 
little face. Miss Meredith had been retailing to her 
mamma the terrific alarm which the Leightons had 


134 The Story Book Girls 

experienced on the previous evening. She met Elma 
full face and the smile on her lips died. 

“Why did you do it?’’ asked Elma bluntly as though 
she had known the Serpent all her life. The Serpent 
glared blandly at Elma, then fiercely resumed ordinary 
pose. 

“You came to my house, or your mother did, to 
take me out of myself — charity-child sort of visit, you 
know. I heard of that, never mind how. I came to 
you to take you out of yourselves. I rather fancy I did it 
— didn’t I?” 

The ice of reserve had been broken at last and the Ser- 
pent was stinging in earnest. 

Elma could only gaze at her. 

“You think I’m a kind of ‘case,’ I suppose. Some 
one to feel good and generous over. Just because my 
hair is coming out in patches. Well, it’s stopped 
coming out in patches, but I still have a few calls 
to pay.” 

“Weren’t you afraid last night ?^’ asked Elma in com- 
plete wonder. 

They had moved into a shadow against the wall. 

“Afraid!” blazed the Serpent, and then she trembled 
as though she would fall. 

“Don’t,” cried Elma sharply, “don’t faint.” 

“I nearly did — last night. I nearly did. It was 
dreadful going home. Who knows that it was I who was 
there?” 

“I do,” said Elma, “that’s all.” 

“Don’t tell a soul,” wailed the burglar. “You 
won’t, will you? I know it was awful of me, but 
such fun up to the moment, when — when I heard them 


135 


The Burglar 

moving inside. Then my legs grew so weak and it was 
like a dream where you can’t get away. You shouldn’t 
have called me the Serpent.” 

“We didn’t,” said Elma. “Not in the way you 
mean. But because you seemed to know about animals 
in a queer way — like Elsie Venner. Lance said she 
was half a snake, but just because she knew about 
snakes. It’s difficult to explain.” 

“Lance? ” asked the Serpent. 

“Yes, why don’t you speak to Lance now and then?” 

“I pay him a higher compliment,” said the queer little 
Serpent. “I wore his clothes last night.” 

“Oh,” said Elma. “Oh! yet you could faint to-day 
— or nearly so.” 

“Isn’t it wicked,” said the Serpent. “A boy wouldn’t 
have given in. They do much worse, and don’t give 
way at the knees, you know. I only opened the window 
and threw in the note. It was nothing. I meant you 
just to be puzzled. I was there early and couldn’t 
find a suitable window or a door, so I waited till the 
maids went to bed. They left a little window half 
open.” 

“Mamma ought to dismiss cook,” said Elma primly. 

It was a streak of the sunlight of confidence which 
did not illuminate the Serpent again for many days 
to come. Elma, however, at the time, and until she once 
more met the scornful glare of reserve habitual to that 
person, felt as though she had found a friend. They 
said good-bye in fairly jocular spirits, and Elma rushed 
home to give at least her “all-to-be-depended-upon” mother 
the news. 

When she entered the drawing-room however, Jean was 


136 The Story Book Girls 

describing the burglary to a company of people. 
Little shrieks and “Ohs” and “Oh, however did you 
do it?” “I should have died, really I should,” were 
to be heard. 

Jean’s burglar was six feet two by this time and he had 
an “accomplice.” 

Elma thought she would choose another occasion on 
which to give her news to Mrs. Leighton. 


CHAPTER XIII 


A Reconciliation 

Mr. Leighton was very sympathetic over the burglar. 
He heard of the occurrence in two ways, first in the 
fiery excited recital of Jean, and then in confidence 
from Elma. Mrs. Leighton was there also. 

“Well, I never!” she said. “That poor little lonely 
soul stealing about at night! it’s dreadful.” She never 
thought for a moment of how foolish it made the rest of 
them seem. 

“She isn’t at all afraid of the dark, or the woods, or 
storms, or anything of that kind,” said Elma. “She 
loves being out with her black cat when it’s pitch dark. 
But she’s terrified now of policemen, and I don’t think 
she will ever call properly on us all her life. She’s 
perfectly savage with us.” 

Mr. Leighton stroked his hair in a preoccupied 
manner. 

“One has to beware of what I should call profes- 
sional goodness,” he said mildly. “It’s pleasant, 
of course, to feel that one does a nice action in being 
kind to the like of that stormy little person. But 
when she detects the effort at kindliness! Well, one 
ought sometimes to think that it must be humiliating 
to the needy to be palpably helped by the prosperous. 

137 


138 The Story Book Girls 

There are various kinds of wealth, not all of them mean- 
ing money. This child has had no affection. Naturally 
she scorns a charitable gift of it. It’s almost a slight on 
her own parents, you know.” 

There,” said Mrs. Leighton in a dismal way, “I 
told Dr. Merryweather I disliked intruding. It was 
an intrusion.” 

“Oh, it will be all right,” replied Mr. Leighton. 
“Don’t plague the child over this romp of being a 
burglar, that’s all. And don’t patronize her,” he said 
to Lima. “Give her a chance of conferring something 
herself. It’s sometimes a more dignified way of finding 
a friend.” 

Lima felt some of her high ideas of reclaiming the 
Serpent topple. Miss Grace had advised differently. 
“Be kind and helpful,” she had declared. Now her 
father seemed to think that it was the Serpent’s task to be 
the generous supporting figure. It made her just a little 
wild with that blazing little serpent Elsie. 

For a year and a half their friendship with the Serpent 
existed over crossed swords. She recovered in health, 
but the routine of her life never wavered. The force 
of habit in connection with her mother, that the Pro- 
fessor’s tempestuous irritable habits should rule the 
house and that she should be kept quaking in a silence 
which must not be broken, could not be dispelled even 
by the diligent visits of Miss Meredith. Adelaide 
Maud drew off after the first encounter with the Professor. 
“I’m afraid that there will just have to be a tragic 
outburst every time Mrs. Clutterbuck says ‘a new pair 
of shoes’ instead of ‘a pair of new shoes,’” said she. 
“Nothing can save her now.” 


A Reconciliation 


139 

Soon the efforts of Dr. Merryweather were forgotten in 
the impenetrable attitude of the whole family. 

At the end of eighteen months, most of Ridgetown 
was collected one day for a river regatta at a reach 
a few miles up from the town. Every one of any con- 
sequence except Lance, as Betty put it, was present. 
They rowed in boats and watched the races, picnicked 
and walked on the banks. One wonderful occurrence 
was the presence of Mrs. Clutterbuck and the Serpent. 
Mr. Symington had appeared once more and done some- 
thing this time to penetrate the aloofness of their exist- 
ence. He had come once or twice to the Leightons’ with 
the Professor. 

The girls put this friend of their father’s on a new 
plane. 

He could be engrossed in talk with their father and the 
Professor, and yet not gaze past the rest of the family as 
though they were “guinea pigs.” 

They now knew Mr. Sturgis well enough to tell him 
that he thought nothing more of them than that they 
were a kind of decorative guinea pig. Mr. Symington, 
however, who had not seen them grow out of the childish 
stage, but had come on them one memorable evening 
when the picture of them, for a new person, was really 
something rather delightful to remember — Mr. Syming- 
ton was immediately put on a pedestal of a new order. 
The difference was explained to Robin, who growled 
darkly. “It’s perfectly charming to be received with 
deference by the man who is splendid enough to be 
received with deference by our own father,” explained 
Jean. “Don’t you see?” 

Robin saw in a savage manner. He had never been on 


140 


The Story Book Girls 

this particular pedestal. With all his sister’s enthusiasm 
for Mr. Symington, he could see little to like in that per- 
son. 

Mr. Symington studied in lonely parts of the world 
the wild life an ordinary sportsman would bring down 
with his gun. He was manly, yet learned. Delight- 
fully young, yet stamped with the dignity of experience. 
Robin in his presence felt a middle-aged oppression 
in himself, which could not be explained by years. 

He was particularly galled by his sister’s persistence 
in keeping near the Clutterbuck party on the Saturday of 
the river regatta. 

There were exciting moments of boat races, duck 
races, swimming competitions, and so forth. Then 
came the afternoon when everybody picnicked. 

The Leightons had a crowd of friends with them, 
and took tea near the pool by the weir. 

May undertook to teach Betty how to scull in an out- 
rigger, which one of the racers had left in their care 
for the moment. Betty was daring and rather skilful 
to begin with. It seemed lamentable that, with so 
many looking on, she should suddenly] catch a real 
crab. May, standing on the bank, screamed to her, as 
Betty’s frail little boat went swinging rather wildly 
under the trees of an island. 

‘‘Look here,” cried Jean to May sharply. “What 
made you two begin playing in such a dangerous part? 
Sit still,” she shouted wildly to Betty. 

It seemed as if no one had understood that there was 
any danger in these little pranks of Betty’s, till her 
boat was swept into mid-stream, and ran hard into 
certain collision on the island. Jean called for some 


A Reconciliation 


141 

one to take a boat out to Betty. Then the full danger 
of the situation flashed on them. Just a few minutes 
before a detachment had gone up to the starting point, 
and no boat was left in which one might reach Betty. 

‘‘Sit still,’’ shouted Jean again, “hold on to the 
trees or something.” 

It had occurred in a flash. Betty in the quiet water 
was all very well, but Betty, the timid, out alone on a swirl- 
ing river with a weir in the very near distance, this Betty 
lost her head. 

Jean’s scream, “Sit still,” had the effect of frightening 
her more than anything. “It was what one was advised 
to do when horses were running off, or something par- 
ticularly dreadful was about to happen,” thought Betty. 

She first lost an oar, then splashed herself wildly in 
the attempt to recover it. The sudden rocking of her 
“shining little cockle shell,” as she had called it only 
a minute before, alarmed her more than anything. 
She was being swept on the island, deep water every- 
where around it. With a gasp of fear she rose to catch 
the tree branches, missed, upset the cockle shell at last, 
and fell into the river. 

Those on the bank, for a swift moment, “or was it 
for centuries,” stood paralyzed. 

“Oh!” cried Jean, “oh 1” 

There was a swift sudden rush behind them, “like a 
swallow diving through a cornfield,” said May later. 
A tense, victorious little figure, flinging off hat and a 
garment of sorts ; a splash ; a dark head driving in 
an incredibly swift way through water impatiently 
almost trodden upon by two little wildly skimming 
hands, then a voice when Betty rose: “Lie on your 


142 


The Story Book Girls 

back, I’ll be with you in a minute,” and the valiant little 
Serpent was off to the saving of Betty. It was suffi- 
ciently terrifying on account of the weir. If Elsie 
reached Betty, would she have the strength to bring 
her back. If Elsie did not reach Betty, Betty could not 
swim. It was dreadful. Jean, second-rate swimmer 
as she was, would have been in herself by this time, but 
that Elma held her. 

“She’s got her,” she whispered with a grey face. 
They shouted when the Serpent turned slightly with 
Betty. She was like a fierce little schoolmistress. 
“Don’t interfere with me, lie on your back. Keep lying 
on your back,” and Betty obeyed. At the supreme 
moment the Serpent had come into her own, and dis- 
played at last the talent which till then had only been 
expended on her cats and dogs. “Lie still,” she growled, 
and obediently, almost trustingly, Betty lay like a 
little white-faced drowned Ophelia. Then “Come along 
with that boat,” sang out the Serpent cheerily. 

Round the bend of the river above, at sound of their 
cries had come “Here ward the Wake, oh how magnifi- 
cent,” sobbed Jean. It was Mr. Symington. 

The Serpent, with hard serviceable little strokes, 
piloted Betty lightly out of the strength of the current. 
Mr. Symington was past and gently back to them 
before a minute had elapsed. 

“Grip the gunwale,” he said cheerily to Elsie. It 

was the tone of a man addressing his compatriot. 

(Oh ! how magnificent of the Serpent.) 

“Now,” he said, “keep a tight hold on her still. 
I must get you into quiet water.” He pulled hard. 
Immediately he had them into the backwater. It 


A Reconciliation 


143 

was rather splendid to see him get hold of a tree, tie 
the boat, and be at the side of the Serpent before one 
could breathe. He had rowed in with the full strength 
of a strong man, and in a minute he was as tenderly 
raising Betty. He had never properly removed his 
eyes from her face. ^‘She was just fainting. You 
held on well,” he said approvingly. “Don’t let her sis- 
ters see her at present.” He lifted Betty to the bank. 

“Quick, open your eyes,” he said commandingly. 

“Look here,” called the Serpent. She had scrambled 
neatly out by herself. “Betty, Betty Leighton, oh! 

Betty, open your eyes.” There was an answering quiver. 
“Quick, Betty, before your sisters come. Don’t frighten 
them. Open your eyes, Betty.” 

Mr. Symington rubbed Betty’s hands smoothly in a 
quick experienced manner. 

Betty opened her eyes and looked at the Serpent. 

“Oh, Elsie,” she said, “Elsie, you sweet little Ser- 

pent!” It was an end to the crossed swords feud. 
Elsie took her in her arms and cried. 

When the girls arrived panic-stricken they found 
Mr. Symington trying to get a coherent answer to 

his orders from two bedraggled girls, who could do 
nothing but weep over each other. The brave little 
Serpent had lost her nerve once more. 

“Oh!” she said, “it’s very wicked to be a girl. Boys 
wouldn’t give way like this.” 

Jean looked at her narrowly. “Do you always go 
about in gymnasium dress, ready to save people?” 
she asked, with the remains of fear in her voice. 

The brave little Serpent looked down on her costume, 
and the red which glowed in her cheeks only from morti- 


144 


\ 

The Story Book Girls 

fication ran slowly up and dyed her pale face crimson. 
“Oh!” she said, “oh!” and sat speechless. 

Betty sat up shivering. “I do call that presence of 
mind, don’t you? She flung off her skirt, didn’t you, 
dear ? ” 

The Serpent would have answered except that the 
“dear” unnerved her. She faded to tears once more. 

“Come, come,” said Mr. Symington. 

And at that, as they afterwards remembered, Mabel 
“came.” 

She came through the trees in a white dress, and 
the sunshine threw patches of beautiful colour on her 
hair. 

“Oh, little Betty!” she cried. 

Then she saw the Serpent. 

She took Elsie right up against the beautiful white 
dress and kissed her. Mabel could not speak at all. 
But her eyes glowed. She turned them full on Mr. 
S)Tnington. “We must take these children home at 
once,” she said. 

Mr. Symington looked as though he had been rescuing 
an army. “Yes,” said he gravely. 

Robin had trailed in looking somewhat dissatisfied. 

“Jean would go, wouldn’t she?” he asked. 

“Oh no, I don’t want mummy to know,” said Mabel. 
“She is up there with Mrs. Clutterbuck. These two 
must go home, and get hot baths, and be put to bed and 
sat upon, or they won’t stay there. Where can we 
get a cab, I wonder?” 

“Here,” said a voice. 

Adelaide Maud now came through that beautiful 
pathway of sun-patched trees with Elma. “I’ve heard 


A Reconciliation 


145 


all about it,’^ said she, “and we have the carriage. 
Borrow wraps from every one and tuck them in. We 
shall keep Mrs. Clutterbuck employed till Mr. Symington 
comes back.’^ 

It seemed that they all took it for granted that Mr. 
Symington would go. 

Robin showed signs of losing his temper. Mabel, 
as a rule, when these imperious fits descended on him, 
began to investigate her conduct and wonder where 
she might alter it in order that he might be appeased. 
This time, however, she was too anxious and concerned 
over Betty, and while Jean might be quite whole- 
hearted in her manner of looking after people, one 
could not depend on her for knowing the best ways 
in which to set about it. In any case, the two could not 
be kept there shivering. 

Adelaide Maud was a trifle indignant at the inter- 
ruption. “Quick,” she said to Mr. Symington, “get 
them in and off.” 

“Oh, you are the fairy princess, always, somehow, 
aren’t you?” sighed Betty, happily, as on their being 
tucked in rugs and waterproofs, Adelaide Maud gave 
quick decided orders to the coachman. 

“Isn’t she just like a story book?” she sighed rap- 
turously. They drove swirling homewards, in a damp 
quick exciting way until they pulled up at the door of 
the White House. 

“Oh, mine was nearer,” said the Serpent nervously. 
She had never entered the portals of the White House 
in this intimate manner, and suddenly longed for lone- 
liness once more. 

“Well,” said Mabel sweetly and nicely, “you will 


L 


146 The Story Booh Girls 

just have to imagine that this is as near for to-day 
at least. Because I am going to put you to bed.” 

They laughed very happily because they were being 
put to bed like babies. 

“If only Cuthbert were here,” said Mabel anxiously 
and in a motherly little way to Mr. Symington, afterwards, 
“he would tell me whether they oughtn’t to have a hot 
drink, and a number of other things they say they won’t 
have.” 

“I should give them a hot drink,” said Mr. Syming- 
ton with his grave eyes dancing a trifle. “And keep 
them in blankets for an hour or two.” 

It was he who found Mr. Leighton and told him a 
little of what had happened. (“Oh the conspiracies 
which shield a parent!”) For days Mr. and Mrs. 
Leighton, the Professor and Mrs. Clutterbuck, had an 
idea that the two girls had merely fallen in and got very 
wet. In any case, Elsie often came home in consider- 
able disrepair. When one found, however, that neither 
was the worse for the fright, Elsie was made a real 
heroine. It changed her attitude completely. The 
Leightons liked her now whether they felt charitable 
or not. It was a great relief. And one day her own 
father focussed his far-away gaze on her, as though he 
had only then considered that there was anything on 
which to look at her particular place at table. 

“They tell me — ahem — that you can swim,” he 
exclaimed. “Very excellent exercise, very.” 

To an outsider it did not sound like praise, but his 
sentence set Elsie’s heart jumping in a joyous manner. 

“Oh, papa,” she said, “I was very frightened 
afterwards.” 


A Reconciliation 


147 

^*Hem,” said he, excellent time in which to be 
frightened.’* 

Mrs. Clutterbuck congratulated herself on his having 
said it (she would have made it “time to be frightened 
in,” and the Professor in such good humour, too !). 

Happier days had really dawned in that grim house- 
hold however. 

The growing up of the courage of Elsie became a 
wonderful thing. 

Meanwhile other events had occurred than the saving 
of Betty. Robin had had to go home alone, and Lance 
had the benefit of some of his ill-humour on meeting 
him on the way. 

“Who shot cock Robin to-day?” reflected Lance 
with speculative eyes on that retreating person. He 
nearly ran into a very athletic figure coming swing- 
ing round on him from the Leightons’. 

Hereward the Wake was in his most magnificent 
mood and his eyes shone with the light of achievement. 
He was speaking when he turned, and the words dropped 
automatically even before the impish gaze of Lance. 

“Knew you and named a star,” quoted Mr. Syming- 
ton. 

“Now what on earth has that to do with the boat 
race?” asked Lance. 


CHAPTER XIV 


The First Peal 

Mabel was twenty-one when her cousin Isobel Leighton 
came to make her home at the White House. Isobel’s 
mother had died ten years before, and since the more 
recent death of her father, she had stayed for a year 
or two with her mother’s relations. Now, suddenly, 
it seemed imperative that Mr. Leighton should offer 
her a place in his own family, since various changes 
elsewhere left her without a home. It was the most 
natural thing in the world that everybody should be 
pleased. The girls got a room ready for her, and 
took pains towards having it specially attractive. 
They even made plans amongst their friends for Iso- 
bel to be suitably entertained. ‘‘Though how we are 
to manage about dance invitations and that sort of 
thing, I can’t think,” said Jean. “It’s bad enough 
with two girls, and sometimes no man at all. It will be 
awful with three.” 

Elma herself was on the verge of being eligible for 
invitations. Mabel looked as though she did not 
mind much. Worrying thoughts of her own were 
perplexing her, thoughts which she could not share 
with any one just then. The spring of her life had 

148 


The First Peal 


149 


been one to delight in. Tendrils of friendship had 
kept her safely planted where Jean, the revolutionist, 
tore everything by the roots. What was not good 
enough for Jean immediately was had up and cast 
away. What had not been good enough for Jean 
had been their own silly enthusiasm for the Story 
Books. Jean in her own mind had disposed of the 

whole romance of this by beating Theodore at golf. 
She now patronized Theodore, and ignored the others. 
Adelaide Maud she already considered entirely passe. 

The confidences of long ago were shaken into an 
unromantic present. The Dudgeons called ceremo- 
niously twice a year, and invited the girls to their 

dances. Mabel and Jean went, occasionally with 

Cuthbert “cut in marble,” and were inexpressibly 
bored in that large establishment. 

“It doesn’t seem to make up for other things that 
one sits on velvet pile and has a different footman for 
each sauce,” Mabel declared. “We have to face the 
fact that the Dudgeon establishment is appallingly 
ugly.” 

So much for Mrs. Dudgeon’s beaded-work cushion 
effect. 

“It’s only a woman who would make you leave 
an early Victorian drawing-room for a Georgian hall, 
and get you on an ottoman of the third Empire, and 
expect you to admire the mixture,” growled Cuth- 
bert. It was this sort of talk that was to be had 
out of him after he had been to the Dudgeons’ 
balls. 

Elma still prized her meetings with Adelaide Maud 
at Miss Grace’s, but recognized where her friendship 


150 


The Story Book Girls 

ceased there. There seemed no getting further into 
the affections of Adelaide Maud than through that 
warm comradeship at Miss Grace’s, or through her 
outspoken admiration for Mr. Leighton. And ‘^Ade- 
laide Maud had grown passe” Jean had declared. 

The world seemed very cold and unreal at this junc- 
ture. 

Mabel came in to Lima’s room one day looking very 
disturbed. There was a fleeting questioning look of 
“Are you to be trusted?” in her eye. 

“You know I’m to be trusted, Mabs,” said Lima, 
as though they had been discussing the iniquity of any- 
thing else. “You aren’t vexed at Isobel’s coming, 
are you?” 

“Oh, no,” said Mabel quickly, “it isn’t that, it’s 
other things.” She threw herself languidly on a 
couch. “Haven’t you noticed that the Merediths haven’t 
been here for a fortnight?” 

Lima brushed diligently at fair, very wavy hair. 
It fell in layers of soft brown, and shone a little with 
gold where the light touched the ripples diligently 
created with over-night plaiting. She had grown, 
but in a slender manner, and was admittedly the 
petite member of the family. There was a wealth 
of comprehension in the glance she let fall on 
Mabel. 

“Mabel, you don’t mean to quarrel with them, do 
you ? ” 

It seemed that the worst would happen if that hap- 
pened. 

“I don’t suppose I shall have the chance,” said 
Mabel. She took a rose out of a vase of flowers, and 


The First Peal 


151 

began to pluck absently at the petals. “I think I should 
love to have the chance.” 

“Oh, Mabel,” said Elma distractedly, “how dread- 
ful of you ! And how fatal it might be ! I shouldn’t mind 
quarrelling a little. I think indeed it would be lovely, 
if one were quite sure, perfectly convinced, that one 
could make it up again. That’s why I enjoy a play 
so much. Every one may be simply disgusting, but 
they are bound to make it up. If only one could be 
absolutely safe in real life ! But you can’t. I don’t 
believe Mr. Meredith would make it up.” 

“I am sure he wouldn’t.” Mabel plucked at a pink 
leaf stormily. “That’s why I should like to quarrel with 
him.” 

“Mabs, don’t you care for him now?” Elma’s 
eyes grew wide with trouble. It was not so much that 
Mabel had given any definite idea of having cared for 
Mr. Meredith. It had been a situation accepted long 
ago as the proper situation for Mabel, that there should 
be an “understanding” in connection with Mr. Mere- 
dith. It established limitless seas of uncertainty if 
anything happened to this “understanding” except 
the most desirable happening. Mabel leaned her head 
on her hand. 

“You see, dear,” she exclaimed, “this is how it is. 
Long ago, papa so much disliked our talking about 
getting married, any of us, even in fun, you know, that 
it was much easier, when Mr. Meredith came, just to 
be friends — very great friends, you know, but still — 
friends. Papa always said he wouldn’t let one of 
us marry till we were twenty-three. That was definite 
enough. And he has been quite pleased that we haven’t 


152 The Story Book Girls 

badgered him into getting engaged. Still, I always 
think that Robin ought to have said to him, once at 
least, that sometime he wanted to marry me. He 
didn’t, I just went on playing his accompaniments, 
and being complimented by his sister. Now — now, 
what do you think ? He has grown annoyed with 
papa for being so kind to Mr. Symington. Fancy 
his dictating about papa!” Mabel’s eyes grew round 
and innocent. 

“But that’s because Mr. Symington is nice to you, 
perhaps,” said Elma, as though this burst of compre- 
hension was a great discovery on her part. 

“Exactly,” said Mabel calmly. “But if you leave 
unprotected a cake from which any one may take a 
slice, you can’t blame people when they try to help 
themselves. Robin should be able to say to Mr. Sym- 
ington, ‘Hands off — this is my property,’ and then 
there would be no trouble. As it is, he wants me to 
do the ordering off. Papa’s friend too 1 ” 

“What did you say to him, Mabel?” Elma asked 
the question in despair. 

“I said that when Mr. Symington had really got 
on — then would be the time to order him off.” 

Mabel fanned herself gently. Then her lip quiv- 
ered. 

“I don’t think papa ever meant to let me in for an 
ignominious position of this sort — but here I am. If 
Robin won’t champion me, who will?” 

“Oh, but surely,” said Elma, “surely Robin 
Meredith would never ” 

“That’s the trouble. He would,” said Mabel. 
“And once you’ve found that out about a man — 


The First Peal 


V53 

you simply can’t — you can’t believe in him, that’s 
aU.” 

Elma sat in a wretched heap on her bed. 

“I think it’s horrid of him to let you feel like that,” 
she said. “Other men wouldn’t. Cuthbert wouldn’t 
to any one he cared for.” 

“Lots wouldn’t,” said Mabel. “That’s why it’s 
so ignominious, to have thought so much of this one 
all these years!” 

“Mr. Maclean wouldn’t,” said Elma. She had 
always wondered why Mabel had ignored him in her 
matrimonial plans. 

“No, I don’t believe he would,” said Mabel. “But 
that’s no good to me, is it?” 

“Mr. Symington wouldn’t,” said Elma. 

“Oh, Elma!” Mabel’s eyes grew frightened. “That’s 
what scares me. I sit and sit and say, Mr. Symington never 
would. It makes Robin seem so thin and insignificant. 
He simply crumples up. And Mr. Symington grows 
large and honourable, and such a man ! And I’m 
supposed in some way to be dedicated to Robin. It’s 
like having your tombstone cut before you are dead. Oh, 
Elma, whatever shall I do!” 

Elma was quite pale. The lines of thought had 
long ago disappeared with the puckerings of wonder 
on her face. Here indeed was thunder booming 
with a vengeance, and near, not far off like that 
golden picture of years ago. Mabs was in deep 
trouble. 

“You see what would happen if I told papa? He 
would order off Mr. Symington in a great fright, because 
he has never thought somehow that any of us were 


154 The Story Book Girls 

thinking of him except that he is an awfully clever 
manl I think also that papa would turn Robin out of 
the house.” 

“I believe he would,” said Elma in a whisper. 

“And then — how awful! All our friends their 

friends 1 Everywhere we go, we should meet Sarah 

Meredith 1 What a life for us 1 I should like to quarrel — 
just because I’m being so badly treated, but the con- 
sequences would be perfectly awful,” said Mabel. 
She took it as though none of it could be helped. 

Elma was quite crumpled with the agitation of her 
feelings. 

“You must tell papa, Mabel,” she said gently. 

“Oh, Elma, I can’t — about Mr. Symington. Imagine 
Mr. Symington’s ever knowing and thinking — ‘ What 
do I care for any of these chits of girls 1 ’ Robin has 
always got wild — if I smiled to my drawing master 

even. What I hate, is being dictated to now. And 

his sulking — instead of standing by me if there is any 
trouble. He isn’t a man.” 

A sharp ring at the bell, and rat-tat of the postman 
might be heard. Somebody called up that a letter had 
come for Mabel. 

Elma went for it and produced it with quaking heart. 
The writing seemed something very different to any 
of the letters which came to Mabel. 

It was from Mr. Symington. 

It explained in the gentlest possible way that he 
had learned from Miss Meredith that his presence in 
Ridgetown caused some difiSculty of which he had 
never even dreamed. He wrote as a great friend of 
her dear father’s, and a most loyal admirer of her family. 


The First Peal 155 

to say the easiest matter in the world was being effected 
and that his visit to Ridgetown had come to an 
end. 

The paper shook gently in Mabel’s fingers, and fell 
quivering and uncertain to the floor. She looked up 
piteously and quite helplessly at Elma, like a child 
seeking shelter, and then buried her head on the couch. 
She cried in long, strangled sobs, while Elma stood 
staring at her. 

Elma pulled herself together at last. 

“Mabel dear, I’m going to read it.” 

Mabel nodded into her bent arms. 

“Oh but,” said Elma after shakingly perusing that 
document, “but he can’t — he can’t do this. It’s 
dreadful. It’s like blaming you ! What can Miss 
Meredith have said? Oh! Mabel! Mabel, I shall cut 
that woman dead wherever and however I meet her. 
Oh, Mabel — what a creature! Don’t you cry. Papa 
will explain to Mr. Symington. He will believe papa. 
Papa will explain that you had nothing to do with 
it, that you don’t mind whether he goes or stays — 
that ” 

“But I do mind,” said Mabel in cold, awe-struck 
tones. “That’s the awful part. And it’s nothing 
but the smallness of Robin that has taught me. Mr. 
Symington is the only man worth knowing in the whole 
earth.” 

She clasped her hands in a hopeless way. 

“And he has been sent away, banished, by the very 
man who should have made it impossible for me 
to see any good quality in any one else except him- 
self.” 


156 The Story Book Girls 

‘‘Who will play Mr. Meredith’s accompaniments 
now?” Elma asked. “Why, they can’t get on with- 
out you, dear.” She still believed that just as plays 
were arranged, so should the affairs of Mabel come 
back to their original placidity. 

“I shall never play another note for Robin Mere- 
dith,” said Mabel. 

Elma could not yet doubt but that Robin would come 
directly he knew how satisfactorily he had disposed 
of his rival. One hoped that Mr. Symington had only 
explained so far to Mabel. That afternoon they were 
to meet Isobel, so that every one was more or less 
occupied, and always on this same evening of the 

week, Friday, the Merediths were at an open “at 
home” which the friends of the Leightons attended 
at the White House. The question was, would the 

Merediths come ? 

Mabel did not seem to care whether they came or 
not. She sat, crushing the letter and not looking at 
Elma. 

“Elma dear,” she said at last, “I can’t stand this. 
I shall tell papa. Mamma will only say ‘I told you 
so’ for our having been such friends with the Mere- 
diths. But I can’t bear that she shouldn’t know. 

I’m not ashamed of anything,” she caught her 
breath with a slight sob. “But I’m done with 

Robin.” 

It seemed magnificent to Elma that for her own 
honour she should jeopardize so much. Men like 
Mr. Meredith were so rare in Ridgetown. Yet when 
she asked her, couldn’t she still admire Robin, Mabel 
said very truthfully then “No.” 


The First Peal 


157 

Elma would have liked to say that it didn’t matter about 
Mr. Symington. 

‘‘Robin will never enter this house again,” Mabel 
said with quivering lip. 

But he came — several times. 


CHAPTER XV 


The Arrival 

The 4.50 train hammered and pounded in a jerkily 
driven manner to Ridgetown. It was hot, and most 
of the windows lay open in the endeavour to catch any 
air that had escaped being stifled in smoke and the 
dust of iron. Miss Meredith occupied a first-class 
carriage together with two people. One, an old gen- 
tleman who travelled daily and who did not count, 
the other a dark-eyed girl of pale complexion. She 
wore irreproachably fitting tweeds, and as though to 
contradict the severity of their trim appearance, a 
very flamboyant red hat. It was tip-tilted in a smart 
way over her nose, and had an air of seeming to make 
every other hat within eyeshot scream dejectedly, “I come 
from the country.” 

The red hat came from the town, London presumably. 
The dark girl seemed in a petulant mood, as though the 
atmosphere of the carriage stifled her in more ways 
than by its being uncontrollably hot. It was out of 
gear with the smooth, madonna-like appearance of her 
features, that she should be petulant at all. There 
was an indescribable placidity about her carriage and 
expression which contradicted her movements at this 
moment of nearing Ridgetown. She caught Miss 
Meredith’s eye on her, and seemed annoyed at the 
158 


The Arrival 


159 


interest it displayed. Miss Meredith was much im- 
pressed by her appearance. As a rule, she confined 
her ideas of people in Ridgetown either to their being 
“refined” or “rather vulgar.” This girl had not 
the air of being either of those two. She was a type 
which had never been dissected in Ridgetown. It 
was as evident that one would neither say of her that 
she was the complete lady, nor yet that she was un- 
ladylike. One could say that she was good-looking, 
adorably good-looking. Calm, lucid eyes, containing 
a calculating challenge in their expression, milky 
complexion framing their mysterious depths of dark- 
ness, red lips parting occasionally with her breathing 
over startlingly white teeth, this was all very different 
to the rosebud complexions, the rather shy demeanour 
of Ridgetown. 

Miss Meredith could act as a very capable little 
policeman when she became interested in any one. 
She determined to act the policeman now that she 
was aware this must be a visitor to Ridgetown. They 
had passed the last slow stopping-place, and were near- 
ing what must be her destination. Each station with- 
out the name of Ridgetown had evidently annoyed 
the dark girl. 

“The next station is Ridgetown,” said Miss Mere- 
dith pleasantly. 

The dark girl stared. 

“Oh, ah, is it?” she asked negligently. 

The old gentleman rose from the corner and began 
collecting his belongings. 

“ May I help you ? ” he asked, and lifted down her dressing 


case. 


i6o The Story Book Girls 

She became radiant. 

“Thank you so much,” she said very gracefully. 

Miss Meredith felt in an annoyed manner that her 
own overtures had been unrecognized in favour of 
these. She could be an abject person, however, 
wherever she intended to make an impression, and 
decided not to be nonplussed too soon. Doubtless 
the dark girl was about to visit some friend of her 
own. She rose at her end of the carriage to get a 
parasol from the rack. It allowed the new arrival to 
swing out on the platform even before the train was 
stopped. 

Miss Meredith saw Isobel being received by the 
Leightons. 

This was enough to allow of Miss Meredith’s slipping 
away unnoticed before a porter came to find the neg- 
lected dressing bag. But she went unwillingly, and 
in a new riot of opinion. The truth came forcibly 
that the new cousin would be a great sensation in 
Ridgetown. It was strange that she had never dreamed 
that the dark girl might be the Leightons’ cousin. No 
occasion would be complete without her. A few weeks 
ago, and she might have had her first reception at the 
Merediths’, where they should have had the distinction 
of introducing her. Now, owing to late events, re- 
lations might be rather strained between themselves 
and the Leightons. 

Miss Meredith had grown more ambitious each year 
with regard to her brother. She was the ladder by 
which he had climbed into social prominence in Ridge- 
town. Her diligence overcame all obstacles. At first 
she had deemed it delightful that he should be attached 


The Arrival 


i6i 

to Mabel, now it seemed much more appropriate that 
he should make the most of the Dudgeons. Through 
the Leightons they had formed a slight acquaintance 
there, which had lately shown signs of development. 
It became necessary to sow seeds of disaffection in 
the mind of Robin where the Leightons were con- 
cerned. He had become too much of their world. 
He was a man not easily influenced, and he had had 
a great affection for Mabel. But the constant wearing 
of the stone had invariably been the treatment for 
Robin, and lately a good deal of wearing had been 
necessary on account of Mr. Symington. 

She began to recall just how much she had said to 
Mr. Symington. Her face burned with the recollection 
that he had shown how much he thought of Mabel. 
She had put the matter from Mabel’s point of view. 
While Mr. Symington was there, Mabel’s happiness 
with Robin was interfered with. Miss Meredith had 
intended to imply that it was his constant attendance at 
the White House which was being called in question. 
Whereas he had already, unknown to her, settled 
on it as meaning Ridgetown. He had interrupted her 
abruptly, with stern lips, “Pardon me, but will you let 
me know distinctly, — is Miss Leighton engaged to 
your brother?” Miss Meredith saw her chance and 
took it at a run. “Yes,” she said. It was hardly a 
lie, considering how Robin and Mabel had been linked 
for so many years in a tacit sort of manner. 

“That — I had not understood,” said Mr. Symington. 
Whereupon he immediately wrote his letter to Mabel. 

Miss Meredith had always had her own ideas of Mr. 
Symington. He was not the companion for these very 

M 


i 62 


The Story Book Girls 

young girls. He was not old; on the other hand, but 
he possessed a temperament which put him on another 
plane than that of the rather boisterous Leighton family. 
On the Meredith plane, if one would have the words 
spoken. 

“Robin,’’ she said that evening, after the arrival 
of Isobel, “let us go down to the Leightons’ as though 
nothing had happened.” 

Robin turned a reserved mask of a countenance in 
her direction. 

“You women can do anything,” he said. 

The weariness of being without these kaleidoscopic 
friends of theirs had already beset him. They were 
still in time to find the old level again. It would 
certainly be a freezing world without the Leightons. 
Everybody knew that one might get social advantages 
with the Dudgeons, but one had always a ripping 
time with the Leightons. 

Miss Meredith, on her part, began to wonder, now that 
Mr. Symington was warned and would keep Robin 
from feeling the desirability of the girl whom two men 
were after, whether Robin himself might be more gently 
weaned than by thus being borne away on an open 
rupture. Robin was in the position of a man who 
had been brought up by mother and sister. Practically, 
whatever he had touched all his life had remained 
his own, sacred and inviolate. It seemed that Mabel 
ought to have remained his own merely because he had 
once stretched out his hand in her direction. Then, 
he began to find that he reckoned with a family 
which had been taught unselfishness. 

Isobel, to do her justice, always imagined that Mabel, 


The Arrival 


163 

from the reserve of her welcome on the occasion of 

her arrival, resented her presence at the White House. 
She noticed that of all the girls to make much of her, 
Mabel kept a constrained silence. This she immedi- 
ately put down to a personal distaste of herself, and 
controlled her actions accordingly. From the first 
moment of greeting her aunt and uncle, and sitting 

down to table, she upheld a sweetness of character 
which was unassailable, and which put Mabel’s dis- 
trait manner into rather wicked relief. Isobel’s was 
a nature, formed and articulate, entirely independent 
of the feelings and sympathies of others, a nature 
which could thrive and blossom on any trouble and 
disappointment, so long as these were not her own. 
She had learned in the mixed teaching of her rather 

stranded life, that very little trouble or disappoint- 

ment came in the way of those who could see what 
they wanted and grab with both hands accordingly. 
She determined to grab with both hands every benefit 
to be derived from being leader in the Leighton family. 
She had come there with the intention of being leader. 
Before the meal was over, she had gained the good 
opinion of all except Mabel, an intentional exclusion 
on her part. Mabel had received her without effusion. 
Here was rivalry. In the most methodical and deter- 
mined manner, she began a long siege of those rights 
and privileges which Mabel, as head of the Leighton 
girls, had never had really questioned before. She 
supplied a link in their musical circle, incomplete 
before. She could sing. Her methods were purely 
technical and so highly controlled, that the rather soul- 
ful playing of the Leighton girls shrank a little into a 


164 The Story Book Girls 

background of their own making. Isobel’s voice was 
like a clear photograph, developed to the last shred of 
minuteness. One heard her notes working with the 
precision of a musical box. The tiring nature of her 
accomplishments was never evident at a first perform- 
ance. These only appeared to be rippingly brilliant. 
She had the finished air and mechanical mannerisms 
of the operatic artist, and they became startlingly effec- 
tive in a room where music only in its natural and 
most picturesque aspect had been indulged. Mr. 
Leighton endeavoured to reconcile himself to a person 
who was invariably at top notes, and Isobel deceived 
herself into thinking that she charmed him. She 
charmed the others however, and Jean especially was 
at her feet. It struck her that probably she would be 
able to get more of the fat of life out of Jean than out 
of any one. She noted that Jean ordered a good 
deal where others consulted or merely suggested. 
Ordering was more in her line. 

Of Mrs. Leighton she took no account whatever, 
except that she was invariably sweet in her presence. 

It dawned on no one that a very dangerous ele- 
ment had been introduced into the clear heaven of the 
wise rule of the White House. 

Mabel’s mind at the start, it is true, was in a subcon- 
scious condition of warning. The particular kind of 
warning she could not recognize, but, long after, attached 
it to the attitude of Isobel. In a month or two, she 
found that while her family still remained outwardly 
at one with her, a subtle disrespect of any opinion 
of hers, a discontent at some of her mildest plans, seemed 
to invade the others. It came upon her that her ideas 


The Arrival 165 

were very young and crude with Isobel there to give 
finer ones. 

Ah ! that was it. Isobel was so much better equipped 
for deciding things than she was. It affected Mabel’s 
playing when she imagined that her family found it 
at last not good enough. She never could play for Isobel. 

On the first night of arrival, Mabel was most con- 
cerned, however, with how she was to give certain news 
to her father and mother. Mr. Leighton had heard 
from Mr. Symington — only that he had been called away. 
Mabel took the news in public with a great shrinking. 
Her heart cried out in rebellion, and instead of indulg- 
ing that wild cry, she had to be interested in the arrival 
of Isobel. She caught Isobel’s keen darkness of gaze 
on her, and shifted weakly under its influence to appar- 
ent unconcern and laughter. 

At the worst of it, when they were taking tea in the 
drawing-room after dinner, Robin and his sister came 
in. Miss Meredith’s coup was worth her fear and dis- 
trust in experimenting with it. Robin became genu- 
inely interested in Isobel. This made him almost 
kind to Mabel. 

It concentrated all Mabel’s wild rush of feelings to 
a triumph of pride. Where she would willingly have 
gone to her room and had it out with herself, she waited 
calmly in the drawing-room and heard Isobel’s first 
song. 

Miss Meredith’s heart glowed feebly. She had won 
her point. But Mabel’s face heralded disaster. 

Elma too would not look at her. 

Elma trembled with the weight of what she would 
like to say to Sarah Meredith, and could not. Feebly 


i66 


The Story Book Girls 

she determined not to shake hands with her, then found 
herself as having done it. 

Mr. Leighton talked quite unconcernedly about the 
departure of Mr. Symington. “Can you tell me why 
he leaves us so suddenly?’^ he asked of Miss Meredith. 

She had always made a point of liking to be asked 
about Mr. Symington. This time she seemed afraid 
of the subject, certainly of Mr. Leighton’s airy manner 
of handling it. Robin’s face flushed hotly in an enraged 
sort of manner. Mabel’s grew cold. 

With all their experience of each other, and their 
knowledge of what had been going on, none in the room 
knew the nature of the crisis at hand, except the actors 
in it, and Lima. But, by the intuition of a nature that 
scented disaster easily and wilfully, Isobel, without a 
word from one of them, saw some of these hearts laid 
bare. 

Miss Meredith, ill at ease, interested her immensely. 

Miss Meredith at last answered that she knew nothing 
of the reason why Mr. Symington had left so ab- 
ruptly. 

Lima rose shaking in every limb. 

“That is not true,” she said. Her voice, more than 
her words carried effect. 

She could go no further, she could only say, “That 
is not true.” 

Mrs. Leighton looked very surprised, and then help- 
lessly bewildered. Miss Meredith had a talent for 
seeing her chance. She saw it here. She turned in a 
rather foolish way, as though they intended some 
compliment. 

“Indeed,” said she, “you all over-rate my influence 


The Arrival 167 

with Mr. Symington. It is nothing to me whether 
he goes or stays.’^ 

Mabel pulled Elma into a corner. 

“Oh, shut up, dear, for Heaven’s sake shut up!” she 
whispered, and that incident was closed. 

But Isobel began to play with a loud triumphant 
accompaniment and sang in a manner which might 
have shown every one the thing which she thought she 
had just discovered. 

Instead, they all declared they had never heard such 
clear top notes. 


CHAPTER XVI 


The Thin End of the Wedge 

It seemed to Mabel that Isobel’s proposals, kindly 
worded and prettily mentioned, were always impos- 
sible of acceptance. She did nothing but refuse these 
overtures to friendship for the next week or so. This 
was the more awkward since she was particularly 
anxious to make everything nice for Isobel. But the 
proposals and the overtures seemed continually to 
occur in connection with the Merediths. It was a ridicu- 
lous thing of course that Isobel should be proposing 
anything even in connection with the Merediths. 

Jean had now found some one after her own heart, 
one who did not wait for invitations, but thought 
immediately on a plan for making one’s self known to 
people. Isobel had already called on the Dudgeons. 
Her progress was a royal one, and Mabel hated herself 
for the way she alone, though often with the backing 
up of Elma’s companionship, kept out of things. She 
ventured to tell Jean why Robin no longer was a friend 
of hers. Jean seemed then to think him all the more 
eligible for Isobel. This hurt more than one dared to 
believe. But Jean always had been for a direct way 
of dealing with people, sentiment not being in her 
nature at all. She considered it stupid of Mabel to 
1 68 


The Thin End of the Wedge 169 

bother about a man to whom she had not even been en- 
gaged. 

Mabel rather morbidly clung to her pride after this 
and refused Elma’s repeated pleadings to tell her mother 
and father. If one’s own sister called one a donkey, it 
wasn’t much encouragement to go on to more criticism. 
Mabel would rather see Isobel married to Robin than 
say a word more on her own account. Elma worried 
about it as much as Mabel did, and nothing would 
induce her to go near the Merediths. Mr. and Mrs. 
Leighton noted the difference, but had to confess that 
changes of a sort must come. Above all, Mabel was very 
young, and they did not want to press anything serious 
upon her just then. Robin’s behaviour remained so 
gentlemanly that no one could convict him of any- 
thing except a sudden partiality for Isobel. 

“They are all children of a sort,” said Mr. Leighton, 
“and children settle their own differences best.” 

Isobel felt the difficulty of the number of girls in the 
place. It appalled her to think of Elma’s creeping 
up next, and making the string lengthen. She looked 
with positive disapproval on Elma with her hair up. In 
a forlorn way, Elma felt the great difference between 
her seventeenth birthday and that glorious day when 
Mabel entered into her kingdom. 

Mabel was in trouble, Jean engrossed with her own 
affairs, and Isobel sweetly disdainful when Elma turned 
up her hair. She put it down again for three weeks, 
and nobody seemed to be the least pained at the differ- 
ence. 

At every visit to Miss Grace, she wondered whether 
or not it would be quite loyal to tell her about Mabel. 


170 


The Story Book Girls 

Miss Annie and she were, however, so uncomprehend- 
ing about anything having gone wrong, so interested 
in the new cousin, that invariably Elma’s confidences 
were checked by such a remark as, “How very sweet 
Isobel looked in that pink gown to-day,” and so on. 
Then one had to run on and be complimentary about 
Isobel. It seemed to Elma that her heart would break 
if Miss Grace, along with every one else, went over to 
Isobel. 

She was not to know that Adelaide Maud had been 
there before her. 

‘T can’t quite explain,” said Adelaide Maud to Miss 
Grace one day, “I can’t explain why I feel it, but this 
new cousin isn’t on the same plane with the Leightons. 
There’s something more — more developed, it’s true, but 
there’s also something missing.” 

“Something that has to do with being a lady?” 
asked Miss Grace in her timid way. 

“Exactly. I know my London types, and this isn’t 
one I should fasten on to make a friend of, although 
she makes rather a dashing brilliant appearance in her 
present surroundings.” 

“I’m a little concerned about that,” said Miss Grace. 

In spite of her uniform courtesy where Isobel was con- 
cerned she had quite a talk with Adelaide Maud regarding 
her. 

“I should fancy it’s this,” said Miss Grace finally, “that 
while she stays with the Leightons she has all the 
more income on which to look beautiful. I can’t 
help seeing an ulterior motive, you observe. I sometimes 
wonder, however, what she will do to my little girls before 
she is done with them.” 


The Thin End of the Wedge 171 

The first thing Isobel did was to inflame Jean with a 
desire to sing. There was no use trying to inflame 
Mabel about anything. After Jean had discovered that 
she might have a voice there was nothing for it but that 
she should go to London. She begged and implored 
her father and mother to let her go to London. She 
was the only member of the family who had ever had 
the pluck to suggest such a thing. They had a familiar 
disease of home-sickness which prevented any daring 
in such a direction. Mabel had twice come home a 
wreck before she was expected home at all, and invariably 
vowing never to leave again. 

And now Jean, the valiant, asked to be allowed to 
go alone to London in order to study. 

“It’s Isobel who has done it,” wailed Betty. “She’s 
so equipped. We seem such duffers. And it will be 
the first break.” 

Mr. Leighton groaned. 

“Why can’t you be happy at home?” he asked 
Jean. 

“Oh, it will be so lovely to come back,” said Jean, “with 
it all — what to do and how to do it — at one’s fingers’ 
ends.” 

“You don’t keep your voice at your fingers’ ends, 
do you?” asked Mrs. Leighton. 

It seemed superb nonsense to her that Jean should 
not take lessons at home. Isobel marvelled to find that 
the real difficulty in the way of Jean’s going was this mild 
obstinacy of Mrs. Leighton’s. 

■ “I can tell Jean of such a nice place to live — with 
girls,” said Isobel. “And I know the master she 
ought to have.” 


172 The Story Book Girls 

“And we can’t all vegetate here for ever,” said poor 
Jean. 

Nothing ever cost Mr. Leighton the wrench that this cost 
him, but he prepared to let Jean go. 

Mabel and Elma would rather anything than that 
had happened just then. It had the effect of making 
Isobel more particular in being with Mabel rather 
than with Jean. Had she sounded the fact that, with 
all Jean’s protestations, Mabel was the much desired 
— that people were more keen on having the Leigh- 
tons when Mabel was of the party! Elma began to 
speculate on this until she was ashamed of herself. 

They played up for Jean at this juncture as though 
she were going away for ever. One would have thought 
there was nothing to be had in London from the manner 
in which they provided for her. Even Lance appeared 
with a kettle and spirit lamp for making tea. 

“You meet in each other’s rooms and talk politics and 
mend your stockings,” said he, “and you take turns to make 
tea. I know all about it.” 

Maud Hartley gave her a traveller’s pincushion, and May 
Turberville a neat hold-all for jewellery. 

Jean stuck in her two brooches, one bangle, a pendant 
and a finger ring. 

Then she sighed in a longing manner. 

“If I use your case, I shall have no jewellery to wear,” 
she said to May. 

At that moment a package was handed to her. It was 
small, and of the exciting nature of the package that is 
first sealed, and then discloses a white box with a rubber 
strap round it. 

“Oh, and it’s from Bulstrode’s,” cried Jean in great 


The Thin End of the Wedge 173 

excitement. “The loveliest place in town,” she ex- 
plained to Isobel. “What can it be?” 

It was a charming little watch on a brooch clasp, 
and it was accompanied by a card, “With love to dear 
Jean, to keep time for her when she is far away. 
From Miss Annie and Miss Grace.” 

“Well,” said Jean, with her eyes filling, “aren’t 
they ducks ! And I’ve so often laughed at Miss Grace.” 

“They are just like fairy godmothers,” said Elma. 
“Jean! It’s lovely.” 

She turned and turned the “little love” in her hand. 

Where so many were being kind to Jean, it appeared 
necessary to Aunt Katharine that she also must make 
her little gift. She gave Jean a linen bag for her boots, 
with “My boots and shoes” sewn in red across it. 

“I don’t approve of your trip at all,” she said to 
Jean, “but then I never do approve of what your 
mother lets you do. In my young days we were making 
jam at your age, and learning how to cure hams. The 
stores are upsetting everything.” 

“I want to sing,” said Jean, “and your bag is 
lovely, Aunt Kathie. Didn’t you want very badly 
to learn the right way to sing when you were my 
age?” 

Aunt Katharine sang one Scotch song about Prince 
Charlie, and it was worth hearing for the accompani- 
ment alone, if not for the wonderful energy with which 
Aunt Katharine declaimed the words. Dr. Merry- 
weather, in an abstracted moment, once thanked her 
for her recitation, and this had had the unfortunate 
result of preventing her from performing so often as she 
used to. 


174 


The Story Book Girls 

“No, my dear,” she said in answer to Jean’s remark. 
“I had no desire to find out how they sang at one 
end of the country, when my friends considered that I 
performed so well at the other end. The best masters 
of singing are not all removed from one’s home. Nature 
and talent may do wonders.” 

Then she sighed heavily. 

“The claims of home ought to come first in any case. 
Your mother and father have given you a comfortable 
one. It is your duty to stay in it.” 

“Well, papa has inflamed us with a desire to excel 
in music. It isn’t our fault,” said Jean. “And one 
can’t get short cuts to technique in Ridgetown.” 

“I quite see that your father places many things 
first which ought to come last,” said Aunt Katharine 
dismally. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she exclaimed, 
for four girls, even including Jean with her boot bag, 
had risen at her, “I forgot that I am not allowed free ex- 
pression in regard to my own brother-in-law.” 

Aunt Katharine could always be expected to give in at 
this point, but up to it one was anxious. 

Cuthbert came down to bid farewell to Jean. 

“You are a queer old thing,” he said to her. “Living 
in rooms is a mucky business, you know.” 

“Oh, I shall be with twenty other girls,” said Jean; 
“a kind of club, you know. Isobel says it’s lovely. 
And then we get so stuck here!” 

Cuthbert admitted that it wasn’t the thing for them all 
to be cooped up in Ridgetown. 

“Couldn’t stand it myself, without work,” said he. 
“And then, it’s ripping of course.” 

It was lovely to have Cuthbert back, and he made 


The Thin End of the Wedge 175 

a new acquaintance in Isobel. She had been a queer 
little half-grown thing when he had last seen her. 

In an indefinite way he did not approve of her, but find- 
ing her on terms of such intimacy with every one, he only 
gave signs of pleasure at meeting her. 

Elma was in dismay because there were heaps and 
heaps of things for which she wanted Cuthbert, and 
he only stayed two days. An idea that he could put a 
number of crooked things straight, if he remained, made 
her plead with him to come again. 

Cuthbert promised in an abstracted manner. 

‘‘Give me one more year, Elma, and then you may 
have to kick me out of Ridgetown,” he said. “Who 
knows? At least, I shall make such a try for it, that you 
may have to kick me out.” 

Everybody nice seemed to be leaving, and Adelaide 
Maud was away. 

It was rather trying to Elma that Isobel should about 
this period insist on visiting at Miss Annie’s. Isobel 
seemed to be with them on every occasion, from the 
moment that Jean arranged to go to London. 

Jean got everything ready to start. With Isobel’s 
help she engaged her room from particulars sent to 
her. It was the tiniest in a large house of small rooms, 
but Jean, rather horrified at a detached sum of money 
being singled out by her father from the family funds, 
was determined to make that sum as small as possible. 
Mr. Leighton saw these preparations being made and 
was helpful but dismal about them. Mrs. Leighton 
presented her with a travelling trunk which would 
cover up and be made a window-seat, no doubt, in 
that room where the tea parties were to occur. Every- 


176 The Story Book Girls 

thing was ready the night before her departure, and 
exactly at 7.15, when the second dressing bell rang 
for dinner, as Betty explained afterwards, Jean broke 
down. 

This was an extraordinary exhibition to Isobel, who 
had travelled, and packed, and always moved to a new 
place with avidity. She said now that she would give 
anything she was worth at that moment to be flying 
off to London like Jean. 

“Oh,” said Jean, “it’s like a knife that has cut 
to-day away from to-morrow, and all of you from that 
crowd I’m going to. Do you know,” she said, as though 
it were quite an interesting thing for them to hear 
about, “I feel quite queer — and sick. Do you think 
that perhaps there is something wrong with me?^’ 
She even mentioned appendicitis as a possible ailment. 

“You are getting home-sick,” said Mabel, who knew the 
signs. 

Jean was much annoyed. 

“You don’t understand,” she said. “I’m not silly 
in that way. I don’t feel as though I could shed a tear 
at going away. I’m just overjoyed at the prospect. 
But I’m so wobbly in other ways. I’m really terrified 
that I’m going to be ill.” 

Poor Jean ate no dinner. Jean didn’t sleep. Jean 
perambulated the corridors, and thought of the night 
when Cuthbert got hurt. She wished that she were 
enough of a baby to go and knock at her mother’s 
door, as they had done then, and get her to come and 
comfort her. She hoped her father wasn’t vexed that 
she had asked to go, and hadn’t minded leaving him. 
Then she remembered how she intended coming home — 


The Thin End of the Wedge 177 

a full-blown prima-donna sort of person — one of whom 
he should really be proud. This ought to have set her 
up for the night, but the thought of it failed in its usual 
exhilarating effect. 

The sick feeling returned, with innumerable horrors 
of imaginary pain, and a real headache. 

Jean saw the dawn come in and sincerely prayed that 
already she had not appendicitis. 


CHAPTER XVII 


A Reprieve 

The first two letters from Jean were so long, that one 
imagined she must have sat up most of the night to get them 
off. 

‘T don’t mind telling you that I felt very miserable 
when I got to my rooms,” she said among other things. 
‘T drove here all right, and the door was opened by a 
servant who didn’t seem to know who I was. Then 
she produced a secretary who looked at me very closely 
as though to see whether I was respectable or not. She 
took me up to my room, and it’s like a little state-room, 

without the fun of a bunk. There’s one little slippy 

window which looks out on the gardens, and across 

the gardens there are high houses, with occasionally 
people at the windows. One girl with a pink bow in 
her hair sits at a window all day long. Sometimes 
she leans out with her elbow on the sill, and looks 

down, and then she draws them in again and sits looking 

straight over at me. She’s quite pretty. But what 

a life ! It must be dreadful only having one room and 
nothing to do in it. My piano hasn’t come, and until 

it arrives, it’s like being the girl with the pink bow. 

At home it’s different, we can always pull flowers, or fix 
our blouses, or do something of that sort. The girls 

178 


179 


A Reprieve 

here don’t seem to mind whether one is alive or dead. 
I think they are cross at new arrivals. I sat last night 
at dinner at a little table all by myself, on a slippery 
linoleum floor, and thought it horrid. Then it would 
have been fun to go to the drawing-room (‘to play to 
papa,’ how nice that sounds!), but the girls melted off 
by themselves. I looked into the drawing-room and 
thought it awful, so I ran up to my room and stayed 
there. The girl with the pink bow was at her window 
again, and I really could have slain her, I don’t know 
why.” 

Then “I’m to have my first lesson to-morrow. I’m 
so glad. Because I can’t practise, even although my 
piano has come. A girl who writes made the others 
stop playing last night in the drawing-room because it 
gave her a headache. It makes me think that no one 
will want to hear me sing. I suppose they think I’m very 
countrified. 

“I think the real reason why I can’t practise is because 
I’m not very well. London food doesn’t seem so nice as 
ours, and I still have that funny feeling that I had when 
I started. I suppose you are all having jolly times. 
You would know that girls lived in this house. It’s 
all wicker furniture, and little green curtains, and vases 
of flowers. I’ve only gone out to see about my lesson, 
except to the post and quite near here. I don’t like 
going out much yet. Isobel’s directions were a great 
help.” 

This letter stopped rather abruptly. So much so 
that Mr. Leighton was far from happy about Jean. He 
bothered unceasingly as to whether he should have al- 
lowed her to go. Mrs. Leighton enlarged his anxiety 


i8o The Story Book Girls 

by her own fears. Jean’s growing so much faster and 
taller than any one else had been a point in her favour 
with her mother a few years before, and Mrs. Leighton 
had never got over the certainty that Jean must be delicate 
in consequence. 

“I hope she won’t have appendicitis,” said she mourn- 
fully. 

‘‘Oh, mummy,” said Mabel, “Jean is only home-sick.” 

Jean wrote another desponding letter. 

“Home-sick or not home-sick, if Jean is ill, she has got 
to be nursed,” said Mrs. Leighton. 

“Jean has never been ill in her life,” Mabel pointed 
out. “She hasn’t even felt very home-sick. It will 
pass off, mummy dear.” 

But it didn’t. 

Jean sat, in dismal solitude, in the room looking over 
to the girl with the pink bow, and she thought she should 
die. She did not like the words of encouragement 
which came from home. Every one was trying to 
“buck her up” as though she were a kid. No one 
seemed to understand that she was ill. 

At the fifth day of taking no food to speak of and 
not sleeping properly, and with the most lamentable 
distaste of everything and every one around possessing 
her, she detected at last an acute little pain which she 
thought must be appendicitis. 

She went out, wired home “I am in bed,” and came 
back to get into it. 

Once the girls in the house heard that she was ill, 
they crowded into her room with the kindest expressions 
of help and sympathy. They brought her flowers 
and fruit, and one provided her with books. Then 


A Reprieve 1 8 1 

they came in, as Lance had promised, and made tea for 
her. Jean took the tea and a good many slices of 
bread and butter, and felt some of the weight lifted. It 
might not be appendicitis after all. 

And she never dreamed of the havoc which her 
telegram might create. Towards the evening, she got 
one of her effusive visitors to send off another telegram. 

“Feeling better,” this one declared. 

She did not know that just before this point, Mr. 
Leighton had determined to fetch her home from London. 
The whole household was in despair. Mrs. Leighton 
wanted to start with him in the morning. Mr. Leighton 
was not only anxious, he was in a passion with himself 
for ever having let Jean go. 

“Madness,” he said, “madness. I cannot stand this 
any longer.” 

Isobel hated to see people display feeling, and this ex- 
citement about a girl with a headache annoyed her 
infinitely. She was invited out to dinner with Mabel, 
and Mabel would not go. 

“Papa is in such a state,” Mabel said, “I could not 
possibly go out and leave him like this. Let us telephone 
that we cannot come.” 

Isobel checked the protest that rose to her calm lips. 
She was ready in a filmy black chiffon gown, and her 
clear complexion looked startlingly radiant in that 
framing. She had quite determined to go to the dinner 
party. 

“Let me telephone for you, Mabel,” she said with 
rather a nice concern in her voice. “Then it won’t 
take you away from your father.” 

Mabel abstractedly thanked her. 


iSz 


The Story Book Girls 

“Say Jean is ill, please, and that papa is in fits about 
her. The Gardiners will understand.” 

Isobel telephoned. 

She came back to Mabel with her skirts trailing in little 
flaunting waves of delicate black. 

“They beg me to come. It’s so disorganizing for a 
dinner party. What shall I do?” she asked in an inter- 
rogative manner. 

Mrs. Leighton said, “Oh, do go, Isobel,” politely. 
“Why should anybody stay at home just because we were 
so foolish as to let Jean go off to London alone?” 

“Oh, well,” said Isobel lightly, “when you put it like 
that, I must.” 

She went to telephone her decision. 

It was nearly four weeks afterwards when, in quite 
an unexpected manner, Betty discovered that she never 
telephoned that second time at all. Isobel had arranged 
her going from the start, adequately. 

Mabel was left alone with the anxious parents when 
Jean’s second telegram came in. It opened Mabel’s eyes 
to the fact that perhaps for once Jean was really home- 
sick. It was so much like the way she herself would have 
liked to have acted on some occasions and dared 
not. Jean had never been ill or been affected by nerves 
before, and had therefore no confidence in recoveries. 
No doubt her interest in the new experience had made 
her imagination run away with her. She disliked 
London and wanted to be out of it — that was clear enough. 
But after just six days of it — with everybody laughing 
at her giving in ! The thing was not to be thought of. 

It seemed to Mabel that her own difficult experiences 
lately, all the hard things she had had to bear, culmi- 


A Reprieve 183 

nated in this sudden act of duty which lay before 
her. She must clear out — go to Jean and help her 
through. 

“Oh, papa,” she said, “please let me go.” 

Mr. Leighton jumped as though she had exploded a 
bomb. 

“What, another?” asked he; “isn’t one enough! No, 
indeed 1 I’ve had quite enough of the independence of 
girls by this time. There’s to be no more of it. Jean 
is coming home, and you will all stay at home — for 
ever.” 

He never spoke with more decision. Mrs. Leighton had 
reached the point where she could only stare. 

Mabel sat down to her task of convincing them. 
She looked very dainty — almost fragile — in the delicate 
gown of the particular colour of heliotrope which she 
had at last dared to assume. A slight pallor which Mrs. 
Leighton had noticed once or twice of late in Mabel 
had erased the bright colour which was usual with her. 
She spoke with a certain kind of maturity which her mother 
found a little pathetic. 

“You see, papa, it’s like this. If you go to Jean 
now, in all probability whenever she sees you she will 
be as right as the mail, just as the rest of us are when 
we’ve been home-sick. Then she will be awfully dis- 
gusted that she made so much of it when she finds 
out what it is, and it won’t be coming home like a 
triumphant prima donna for her to come now, will it? 
She will fall awfully flat, don’t you think? And Cuth- 
bert and Lance and you, papa, will go on saying that girls 
are no good for anything. You will take all the spirit out 
of us at last.” 


184 The Story Book Girls 

“She mustn’t go on being ill in London,” said Mrs. 
Leighton. “We can’t stand the anxiety.” 

“Let me go up for a week or two, and see her started,” 
pleaded Mabel. “I’ve been there, you know, and know 
a little about it, and she would have time to feel at 
home. If I find her really ill, I could send for you. 
Jean wouldn’t feel an idiot about it if I went up just to see 
her started.” 

Then Mabel fired her last shot. 

“It would be good for me, mummy. I’ve been so 
stuck lately. Won’t you let me go?” 

Something in Mabel’s voice touched her mother very 
much. 

“Won’t Robin miss you?” she asked in a teasing 
but anxious way. “You don’t tell us, Mabel, whether 
you want Robin to miss you or not. And that’s one of the 
main things, isn’t it?” 

Mabel started, and her eyes grew wide with a fear of 
what they might say next. 

“It’s all right, Mabs ! Don’t you worry if you don’t 
want to talk about it,” said her father cheerily. There 
was a reserve in all of them except Jean which kept 
them from expressing easily what they were not always 
willing to hide. 

“Oh,” said Mabel, “I think I did want to, but 
n-never could. I don’t think I want to be c-coupled 
with Robin any more. It was fun when I was rather s-silly 
and young, but it’s different now.” 

She looked at her father quite sedately and 
quietly. 

“I think Robin thinks a good deal more of Isobel, and 
I’m glad,” she said quite determinedly. “The fact 


A Reprieve 185 

is, I was sure I would be glad if something like that hap- 
pened. I was sure before Isobel came.” 

Mr. Leighton patted her shoulder. 

“Thank you, my dear, for telling us. You’re just to 
do as you like about these things. Difficult to talk 
about, aren’t they ? Remember, I don’t think much 
of Robin now, or that sister of his. They could have 
arranged it better, I think. Never mind. I shall be 
glad to have you find worthier friends.” He patted 
her shoulder again, and looked over at Mrs. Leighton. She 
was surreptitiously wiping her eyes. Mabel sat strong 
and straight and rather radiant as though a weight were 
lifted. 

‘T don’t think,” said Mr. Leighton to his wife in a 
clear voice, ‘T don’t think that either you or I would 
be of greater service to Jean than Mabel could be! 
Now, do you, my dear, seriously, do you ? ” He kept an 
eye on her to claim the answer for which he hoped. 

“I don’t think so, John,” said Mrs. Leighton. 

“Then could you get ready for the 8.50 to-morrow morn- 
ing?” asked Mr. Leighton of Mabel. 

Mabel hugged him radiantly for answer. 

“I don’t know how I can live without two of you, 
even for a week,” he said. “But then, I won’t be 
selfish. Make the most of it and a success of it, and I 
shall always be glad afterwards that you went.” 

It was no joke to have to prepare in one evening for a 
visit to London. Lima’s heart stopped beating when she 
heard of the arrangement. 

“Oh, Mabs, and I shall be left with that — bounder 1 ” 

The word was out. 

Never bad Lima felt so horrified. Years she had 


i86 


The Story Book Girls 

spent in listening to refinements in language, only to 
come to this. Of her own cousin too ! 

“Oh, Mabs, it’s shameful of me. And it will be so jolly 
for Jean. And you too ! Oh, Mabs, shall I ever go to 
London, do you think?” 

“You go and ask that duck of a father of ours — now 
— at present — this instant, and he will promise you any- 
thing in the world. No, don’t, dear. On second thoughts 
he needs every bit of you here. Elma! Play up now. 
Play up like the little brick you are. You and Betty 
play up, and I’ll bless you for ever. Don’t you know 
I’m skipping all that racketing crowd. I’m skipping 
Robin. I’m skipping Sarah ! Think of skipping the 
delectable Sarah!” She shook her fist in the direction 
of the Merediths’ house. “And what is more, dear 
Elma, I am skipping Isobel.” 

She said that in a whisper. 

They had all the feeling that Isobel was a presence, not 
always a mere physical reality. 

Elma had not seen Mabel in such a joyous mood for 
weeks. 

“And it’s also because I feel I can soon square up 
Jean, and make her fit,” said Mabel; “so that I’m of 
some use, you see, in going. I’m quite sure Jean is only 
home-sick after all.” 

She trilled and sang as she packed. 

“Won’t you be home-sick yourself, Mabel?” asked 
Elma anxiously. 

“I have to get over that sooner or later. I shall begin 
now,” said Mabel. 

“Won’t it be beastly in that girls’ club?” wailed 
Betty. 


A Reprieve 187 

“Oh, I’m sure it will,” quivered Mabel. She sank in a 
heap on the floor. 

“Whatever possessed Jean to go off on that wild 
chase, I can’t think,” cried Betty. 

“I know,” said Elma. 

“What?” 

“Isobel.” 

The gate clicked outside and there were voices. 
Betty crept to the window-sill and looked over. Mabel 
and Elma stood silent in the room. Crunching foot- 
steps and then Isobel’s voice, then Robin’s, then “Good- 
night.” 

Mabel, with a smothered little laugh, flung a blouse into 
her trunk. 

“Isn’t it ripping I’m going to London,” said she. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


“Love of Our Lives’’ 

Elma in the privacy of her best confidences had called 
Isobel a bounder. The iniquity, viewed even only in 
the light of a discourtesy, alarmed her, and made her 
more than anything ‘‘buck up’^ to being “nice’^ to 
her cousin. 

Isobel had been quite taken aback by the news of 
Mabel’s departure. She had bargained for almost 
anything rather than that. Jean had continually 
rubbed it in that Mabel was no use for going anywhere 
away from home. And now she was being sent to 
succour Jean. Isobel had gone out with the news 
for everybody that Mr. and Mrs. Leighton would be 
leaving in the morning. She had even made some 
plans. Now, what she looked upon as the tutelage 
of Mr. and Mrs. Leighton remained, and Mabel, whom 
she already regarded as the most useful companion 
where her own interests were concerned, was going 
off to London. 

She could not avoid looking very black about it. 
To be left there with two children, Elma and Betty, 
chained hand and foot to that kindergarten 1 One 
could hardly believe that so dark a cloud could sit on 

i88 


“Love of our Lives’’ 


189 

so clearly calm, so immobile a countenance. Mabel 
detected the storm, and it had the effect of making 
her the more relieved and willing to be off. 

She had many thoughts for Elma. 

“Don’t be hustled out of your rights, dear,” she 
whispered. “Remember, you are the head.” 

Elma had to remember almost every hour of the 
day. The rule of Isobel was subtle, and it was most 
exceedingly sure. She did not take the pains to hide 
her methods from. Elma and Betty, as she had done 
from Mabel and Jean. She openly used the telephone, 
not always with the door shut. It brought her plenty 
of engagements. When a dull day offered itself, Isobel 
invariably was called up by telephone to go out. She 
never dreamed of inviting Elma. Mrs. Leighton she 
looked after in a protecting way which was very nice 
and consoling to that lady stranded of her Jean. Many 
plans were made for Mrs. Leighton’s sake, which Elma 
considered must have often surprised her. It did not 
seem necessary that Mrs. Leighton should attend tea 
at the golf club for instance, but Isobel insisted on 
seeing her go there. Everybody congratulated the 
Leightons on having such a charming girl to keep them 
company while Mabel and Jean were away. Isobel 
had certainly found a vocation. 

She came in to Mrs. Leighton and Elma in the draw- 
ing-room one day in her prettiest tweeds with rather fine 
furs at her throat. 

“Hetty Dudgeon has just rung me up, asking me 
to go to see her this afternoon,” she said calmly. “I 
don’t suppose you care for the walk?” she asked Mrs. 
Leighton. 


190 


The Story Book Girls 

Mrs. Leighton roused herself from the mental somno- 
lence of some weeks. 

“Miss Hetty! Why, I was speaking to her half 
an hour ago. She wanted to send an introduction 
to Jean. She — she, why, it's very strange that she 
didn’t tell me she wanted you to come. And you’ve 
dressed since. In fact, she said ” 

Mrs. Leighton got no further. 

“She must have changed her mind,” said Isobel in 
a careless manner. “Well, good-bye, everybody, I’m 
off.” 

Mrs. Leighton sat a little speechless for the moment. 

“I don’t think I quite like that of Isobel,” she said. 
“Miss Hetty did not want any one this afternoon. 
She told me why — she’s so frank. Vincent is coming.” 

Lima sat debating in her mind, should she tell her 
mother or should she not. It was hardly right that 
Isobel should drag in the telephone, anything, under 
her mother’s unsuspecting eyes, for her own ends. 
It was wildly impertinent to her mother. 

“Mummy, Isobel knew that Vincent was going 
and she made up her mind to go too 1” 

“Made up her mind!” 

“Yes — she almost half arranged it with Vincent at 
the golf club the other day.” 

“Then — then what about telephoning?” 

“She never telephoned at all,” said Elma. 

Mrs. Leighton would willingly have had that unsaid. 

“It is dreadful to think that any one would take 
the trouble to do such a thing for the sake of going 
to the Dudgeons,” she said. “Are you sure you are 
not mistaken?” 


‘‘Love of our Lives” 191 

“Oh, Miss Meredith is happy for a week if she can 
squeeze in an excuse for going to the Dudgeons,” re- 
plied Elma. “The Dudgeons are such ‘high steppers,’ 
you know.” 

“I don’t like it,” said Mrs. Leighton, “I really don’t. 
None of you were brought up to go your own way 
like that, and I don’t admire it in other people.” 

“Isobel believes in grabbing for everything one wants 
with both hands. She doesn’t mean to do anything 
wicked. She simply means to be on the spot,” said 
Elma. 

“But what about loyalty, and friendship, and — 
and honour?” said poor Mrs. Leighton. 

“Oh, when you are grabbing with both hands for 
other things you haven’t time for these.” 

“My precious child! What in the wide world are 
you saying 1” Mrs. Leighton was quite horrified. 

“Nothing that I mean, or believe in, mummy. Only 
what Isobel believes in. She thinks we are fools to 
bother about loyalty and that kind of thing. She 
hasn’t had any one, I think, who cared whether she 
was honourable or not. And it must be distracting 
to know that all the time she can be perfectly beautiful. 
It must make you think that everything ought to come 
to you, no matter how.” 

Elma was really scourging herself now for that 
iniquity of “the bounder.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” said Mrs. Leighton. 

“Oh, mummy, I’m almost sorry I told you now. 
Except that it lifts the most awful weight from my mind. 
I’ve been so afraid that while Isobel went on being so 
sweet and graceful that we should all get bad-tempered 


192 


The Story Book Girls 

if you believed in her very much. She countermands 
my orders to the servants often and often, and they 
never think of disobeying her. That’s one thing I 
want to ask you about. If I insist on their obeying 
me, will you back me up ? I simply crinkle before 
Isobel, I hate so to appear to be against her in any way. 
But Mabel told me I’m to play up as head of the house, 
and I’m not doing it while Isobel upsets any order of 
mine with a turn of her little finger. It’s awfully weak 
of me, but I’ve always said I was made to be bullied, I 
do so hate having rows with people.” 

The murder was out then. 

Mabel had been gone four weeks, and the housekeep- 
ing which had gradually drifted into her hands was now 
of course in the command of Elma, or ought to be. 
Mrs. Leighton saw at last where Isobel had been getting 
hold of the reins of government. 

“You must not be jealous of Isobel’s attractions,” 
she said. “And you know, Elma, any little squabble 
with your cousin would be a rather dreadful thing.” 

“Awful,” said Elma. 

“Your father would never forgive us.” 

“He would understand, though,” said Elma. There 
was always such a magnificence of justice about her 
father. 

“He is feeling being without the girls so much,” 
said Mrs. Leighton. 

“Yes,” said Elma. “But, oh! mother, he is so 
pleased now that they are getting on. And isn’t it 
magnificent of Mabel 1 That’s what makes me think 
I must play up here. Miss Grace says it’s very weak 
to give in on a matter of principle. She says that 


“Love of our Lives” 193 

whether I’m wrong or right, the servants ought to 
obey me.” 

Mrs. Leighton debated for a long time. 

“I quite see your difl&culty,” she said. “But above 
all things, we must never let Isobel think she hasn’t 
her first home with us. You understand that, don’t 
you?” 

“Yes, mummy,” said Elma. “If only you will back 
me up on the servant question once. Then I don’t 
believe we shall have any more trouble with Isobel. I 
don’t mind about whom she telephones to or whom she 
doesn’t, but I do mind about the housekeeping. She 
thinks I’m such a kid, you know. And I mustn’t for the 
credit of the family remain a kid all my days.” 

There was a far stronger motive to account for Elma’s 
determination than any mere slight to herself. It was 
that Isobel had known about Robin and yet appro- 
priated him as though he were a person whom one 
might make much of. The treatment of Mabel turned 
her from a child into a woman blazip^ for justice. 

As they sat down to dinner that night, she noticed that 
her own little scheme for table decoration had been changed. 
At dessert she asked, with her knees trembling in the old 
manner, “Who changed my table centre?” 

Nobody answered till Isobel, finding the silence holding 
conspicuously, said in a careless way, “Oh, I found Bertha 
putting down that green thing.” Elma flushed dismally. 
(If she could only keep pale.) 

She simulated a careless tone, however. 

“Oh, Isobel,” she said, “I wish you wouldn’t. When 
I give directions to the servants, it’s very difficult for me 
if some one else gives them others.” It was lame, 


o 


194 The Story Book Girls 

but it was there, the information that she was in con- 
trol. 

“Very distracting for the servants, too,’’ said Mrs. 
Leighton calmly, and ratified Lima’s venture with 
her approval. 

She ate a grape with extreme care. 

Isobel did not answer. She froze in her pink gown 
however, and a storm gathered kindhng to black anger 
in her eyes. 

She looked Lima over, her whole bearing carrying 
almost a threat. It was a pose which generally came 
off with some effect. 

But Lima was fighting for something more than her 
own paltry little authority. She was bucking up “for 
Mabel’s sake.” 

She pretended to treat it as a joke now that Isobel 
“knew.” 

“So after this I’m in undisputed authority,” she 
exclaimed, and wondered at herself for her miraculous 
calmness. “And if you, Betty, endeavour to get 
more salt in the soup or try on any other of your favour- 
ite dodges, I shall — ” — she also ate a grape quite 
serenely — “I shall half kill you.” 

“Oh, Betty,” she said afterwards, “I feel as though 
I had gone in for a bath in mid-winter. Did you 
see her eye?” 

“I did,” said Betty. “So did papa. You’ll find 
it will be easier for us now. How calm you were! I 
should have fainted.” 

“My knees were knocking like castanets,” said Lima. 
“If I had had them japanned, you would have heard 
quite a row. But it’s very stimulating.” It occurred to 


Love of our Lives ” 195- 

her that now she could write in a self-respecting manner 
to Mabel. 

Isobel after this entirely blocked off Elma from 
any of her excursions. Even the visits to Miss Grace 
were over so far as Isobel was concerned, and Elma 
once more had that dear lady to herself. 

She would not tell Miss Grace how it had happened 
that her cousin no longer accompanied her. Occasion- 
ally, however, Isobel stepped in herself and found her 
former audience in Miss Annie. 

None of it affected Elma as it might have done. 
Isobel hardly spoke to her, certainly never when they 
were alone. It alarmed Elma how she could light up 
when anybody was present, any one who counted, 
and be quite companionable to Elma. 

This all faded before the success of Mabel and Jean, 
who were now writing in the best of spirits. 

And oh! “Love of our lives,’’ Adelaide Maud, 
who was now in London, had called on them. It 
opened up a fairyland to both, for she took them to 
her uncle’s house, and feted them generally. 

Good old Adelaide Maud. 

There was no one like her for bringing relief to the rich, 
and helping the moderately poor. 

So Elma described her. 

It seemed odd that it should be difficult to know 
Adelaide Maud except in an emergency. Elma, on 
the advice of Miss Grace, merely had to send her 
one httle note when in London, with Mabel’s address, 
and Adelaide Maud had called. 

There were great consolations to the life she now led 
with Isobel. Cuthbert vowed he would come down to 


196 The Story Book Girls 

Elma’s first dance. How different it was to what she 
had looked forward to! She would go with Isobel and 
Isobel would be sweetly magnificent, and Elma would 
feel like a babe of ten. She longed to refuse all invita- 
tions until Mabel came home. Then the unrighteous- 
ness of this aloofness from Isobel beset her, and they 
accepted an invitation jointly. 

Isobel ordered a dream of a dress from London. 
Elma was in white. Mabel and Jean sent her white 
roses for her hair, the daintiest thing. Cuthbert played 
up, and George Maclean found her plenty of partners. 
Isobel was quite kind. Mr. Leighton had looked sadly 
at Elma on seeing her off. 

“Another bird spreading its wings, said he. 

She looked very small and delicately dainty. Where- 
as Isobel, “Isobel was like a double begonia in full 
bloom,’’ said Betty. 

The begonia bloomed till a late hour effulgently. 

Elma simply longed all the time for Mabel and Jean, 
and oh 1 “Love of our Lives,” Adelaide Maud. 

It was Lance who christened her “Love of our Lives.” 

“What’s that idiot going on about?” asked Cuth- 
bert, as he swung Elma off on the double hop of a 
polka. 

“He is talking about Adelaide Maud. I’m so dull 
because she isn’t here.” 

“You are?” asked Cuthbert. 

There was a curious inflection on the “you” as 
though he had said, “You also?” 

“Yes,” said Elma; “though it’s so often ‘so near 
and yet so far’ with Adelaide Maud, she is really my 
greatest friend.” 


“Love of our Lives” 


197 


Cuthbert seemed impressed. 

“She doesn’t need to make so much of the ^so far^ pose,” 
he said gruffly. 

“Oh yes, she does,” replied Elma. “It’s her 
mother. She withers poor Adelaide Maud to a stick. 
It’s a wonder she’s such a duck. Adelaide Maud, I 
mean. Cuthbert, when are you coming home for a 
long visit?” she asked. 

“Next summer. I shall tell you a great secret. 
I think I am to get a lectureship, quite a good thing 
Can you keep it from the pater until I’m sure?” 

“Rather,” said Elma. 

“Then,” he said, “if it isn’t all roses here next 
summer, you’ll only have one person to blame.” 

“One?” asked Elma. 

Visions of Isobel cut everything from her mind. 

“Is it Isobel?” she asked mildly. 

“Isobel!” Cuthbert looked so disgusted that she 
could have kissed him. 

She saw Isobel at that moment. She was sway- 
ing round the room in the perfection of rhythm with 
no less an old loyalist than George Maclean. Ah, well 
— all their good friends might drift over there, but she 
still had Cuthbert. The joy of it lent wings to her little 
figure. It always had been and always remained diffi- 
cult for her to adapt her small stride to men of Cuth- 
bert’s build. This night she suddenly acquired the 
strength and ease — the knowledge which really having 
him gave her, to make dancing with him become a 
facile affair. 

“Oh, Cuthbert, this is ripping,” she sighed at last. 
“If it isn’t Isobel, who is it?” she asked him. 


198 The Story Book Girls 

‘‘Why, Elma, you are a little donkey! Who could 
it be, but ‘Love of our Lives,’ Adelaide Maud?” 

He swung her far into the middle where the floor 
became as melted wax, and life opened out to Elma like 
a flower. 

“Oh, Cuthbert dear, how ripping,” said little Elma. 


CHAPTER XIX 


“Herr Slavska’’ 

Mabel had discovered that a woman with a mission 
hasn’t such a bad time of it. She set out on her journey 
to Jean without one of her usual misgivings. It was 
jolly to think that she might be able to be of some 
use in the world. The tediousness of a long journey 
of changes till she reached the main-line and thundered 
direct to London did not pall on her as it had done 
before. Throughout she thought, “I’m getting nearer 
to Jean, and I shall put her on her feet.” 

She prepared to hate the girls’ club, but to be quite 
uninfluenced by it. She would take Jean out, till 
neither of them cared what the club was like at all. 
She forgot Robin and Isobel and everything except one 
thing which she would never forget, and Jean. 

She drove up to the door of the club in the most 
energetic and independent mood she had ever experi- 
enced. She didn’t care whether the secretary looked 
her up and down or not. She merely went straight 
to Jean’s room. Jean didn’t at all pretend that it 
was a downcome. She simply wept with delight at 
the sight of Mabel. 

“And I never shed a tear, not one, till you came,” said 
199 


200 The Story Book Girls 

she. ^‘I’m so glad you came just when I began to 
get better.’’ 

Mabel did not dare to tell her that she had only been 
home-sick. 

“If I tell her that, she will lie in bed to convince me 
that she is really ill,” she thought. 

Girls’ voices were heard screaming volubly. 

“What’s that?” asked Mabel, thinking that some acci- 
dent had occurred. 

“Oh, nothing. They call out for each other from 
their different rooms. I thought it was a parrot house 
when I came, but I’m getting accustomed to it. They’ve 
been so decent, you can’t think, Mabel. I never knew 
girls could be so comforting.” 

“Poor Jean,” said Mabel. 

“You’ll stay, won’t you?” said Jean. 

“Of course I shall. Just imagine, papa wanted to 
come and take you home. It would have been so stale 
for you after you got there, with those little presents people 
gave you and all that kind of thing, if you had gone right 
back home again, wouldn’t it?” 

“Imagine Aunt Katharine alone,” said Jean solemnly. 

“So, if you possibly can, Jean, get up as soon as 
you feel able to crawl. So that I can say you are all 
right. Papa says I may stay for a week or two if you 
are.” 

“Oh, Mabs, I wish you would stay right on !” 

“Where’s my room?” asked Mabel. “What rickety 
furniture ! ” 

“The room is next door, isn’t it nice? And the 
furniture’s bought for girls. They think we like 
rickets.” 


201 


‘‘ Herr Slavska ” 

‘‘Wickets,” corrected Mabel. “You could use that 
chair at a match.” 

“Oh, Mabs, how jolly it is to have you here to laugh 
at it. Mabs, I do feel better.” 

Mabel saw her up in three-quarters of an hour. 

Jean had still to be treated seriously however. 

“You know, Mabs, I had the most dreadful feeling. 
I could quite understand how poor girls without friends 
go and drown themselves.” 

“That’s more like depression than appendicitis,” 
Mabel ventured. 

“I hadn’t been sleeping,” explained Jean with dignity. 

Mabel thought of some sleepless nights. 

“The best cure is always to believe that it can’t last,” 
said she. “Do you remember papa’s telling us how 
Carlyle comforted Mrs. Carlyle when she had tooth- 
ache? He said it wouldn’t be permanent.” 

“What a brute,” said Jean. 

“Well, it sent me to sleep once or twice when I remem- 
bered that,” said Mabel. “But you never were ill 
like this before. You couldn’t believe in getting well, 
could you?” 

“I was sure I was going to die,” said Jean in a hushed 
voice. 

Mabel’s heart had ached. Could she tell Jean of 
that ache and how she had been obliged to cover it up 
by making herself believe that it could not possibly be 
permanent. 

“Jean, do you know, I think it’s so jolly being here, 
getting to know the best way of doing things, and all 
that sort of thing, I think I shall ask papa to let 
me stay longer. Do you think they would let me?” 


202 The Story Book Girls 

“Well, they let me — and then I didn’t want to,” said 
Jean. 

“And I didn’t want to and now I do,” said Mabel. 
“Let’s try it for a week or two anyhow.” 

A great depression had been lifted from her shoulders. 
She found herself in the midst of girls who had all some- 
thing to do in the world. They got up in the morning 
and came tearing down to breakfast and made off to 
various definite occupations, as though they had nineteen 
parties in one day to attend. Some were studying, 
others “arrived” and working, only a few playing. 
Yet even the last had some excuse in the way of a prob- 
lematical career in front of them. Here one saw 
where the desire to be something was quite as hygienic 
an effect on one, as the faculty of attainment. Mabel 
had not been three days in the house till she was as 
feverish as any to be getting on. Going with Jean for 
her first lesson finished her. Jean was still of the 
opinion that she was an invalid, and she certainly was 
overwrought and nervous. She would have backed out 
of her lesson, except that Mabel accompanied her. 

They found a magnificent man, well groomed and 
of fierce but courtly manners. He shook hands with 
the air of an arch-duke. 

“And which is the fortunate mademoiselle?” he 
asked. “Not that I prefer ‘fortunate’ because that 
she happens to be about to be taught by myself, but 
she has a voice? Hn?” It was a sound that had 
only the effect of asking a question, but how efficiently ! 

He glared at Mabel, who produced Jean, as it were 
by a motion of the hand. 

“It is my sister who wants lessons,” she said. 


‘‘Herr Slavska” 


203 


This sounded like something out of a grammar book, 
and both girls saw the humour of it. But timidly, 
because Herr Slavska then invited them to sit, while 
he turned to the piano. He threw some music aside 
from the desk and cleared a place at the side for his 
elbow, as he sat down for a moment. 

“They do not all have voices! No. But som, they 
have the soil. You have the soil? Hn?’^ 

It did not seem necessary to inform Herr Slavska. He 
was walking up and down now, flinging out more sen- 
tences before they had time to answer the last. 

“For myself, I had the voice and I had the soil. 
That is why I ask ‘and who is the mademoiselle who is 

so fortunate ? ’ I am a voice, and look at me 1 I am 

a drudge to the great public. I gif lessons to stupids 
who do not love music. For what! For money to 
keep the stomach alive! Yes, that is it. And yet I 
say — which is the mademoiselle which is fortunate ? 
For vit a voice and vit the soil, and vit the art which I 
shall gif her, what does it matter about the stupid 
public? or the stomach?’’ 

Herr Slavska waited for no answers. 

“For years I was wrong. I had no art. None. I 
sang to the stupids and they applauded. At last I make 

great discovery, I find the art. Now I sing to the 

few.” 

Herr Slavska paused for a moment. 

“My sister has had no training at all, except as a pianist,” 
said Mabel. 

“Hn? Then I haf her, a flower, a bud unplucked!” 

Herr Slavska grew excited. 

“No nasty finger mark, no petal fallen. Ah! it 


204 The Story Book Girls 

is luck, it is luck for mademoiselle. Com, mademoi- 
selle.” 

He struck a note. 

“Will you sing ze !” 

Jean sang “ze.” She sang “zo.” Then he ran 
her voice into the top and bottom registers. 

“You have the comprehension. It is the great 
matter,” said Herr Slavska. 

Then he blazed at her. 

His “the,” quite English when he remained polished 
and firm, degenerated into a “ze” at times such as these. 

“You haf not ze breath, none,” said he, as though 
Jean had committed an outrage. 

Jean, however, had begun to glow with the ardour 
of future accomplishment. 

“That’s what I came to learn,” she said promptly. 

“Aha, she has charac/ar^.” 

Herr Slavska was delighted, but Jean found this con- 
stant dissection of herself trying. 

Then the real work began. Herr Slavska breathed, 
made Jean breathe, hammered at her, expostulated, 
showed his own ribs rising and falling while his voice 
remained even, tender, beautiful. 

Mabel sat clasping her hands over one another. 

“Oh, Herr Slavska, what a beautiful voice you have,” 
she burst out at last. 

He looked at her with the greatest surprise. 

“Ah! You are her sister? Hn? And you sit 
there listening to us?” 

He had forgotten her existence. 

“And you are not of the stupids, no! You say I 
haf a beautiful voice? Hn? It is ze art, mademoiselle, 


“ Herr Slavska ” 


205 


zat you hear now. Sixty-five, I am zat age! And I still 
fight for ze stomach wit my beautiful voice. But you 
are of ze few, is it not? I vil sing to you, mademoiselle, 
just once. Your sister goes. Ten minutes, mademoi- 
selle — only ten minutes. Zen a rest. And every day 
to me for two weeks 1 Hn ? Is it not so ? ’’ 

Then he cast up his arms in despair. 

‘‘Helasl It is my accompaniste. He is not!” 

Jean the direct stepped in. 

“Oh, Mabel will play,” she said. 

Herr Slavska took one of his deepest breaths. 

“I say I shall sing to you — I Herr Slavska. Ant 
you say ‘Mabel will play.’ Hn? Mabel? Who is 
dis grand Mademoiselle Mabel?” 

The humour of it suddenly appeared to come upper- 
most, and Herr Slavska became wickedly, cunningly 
suave. 

“Ah yes, then if mademoiselle will,” he said blandly. 

He produced music. 

Mabel was rooted with fear to the couch. Never in 
her life before had she been nervous. 

“Jean, how could you?” whispered she. 

Oh, fortune and the best of luck ! He turned to a song 
of Brahms’. How often had Mabel tried to drum 
that song into the willing but uncultured Robin! That 
Robin in his lame way should help her now seemed 
the funniest freak of fate. She played the first bars 
hopefully, joyfully. She knew she couldn’t do anything 
silly there. 

“But what!” 

Herr Slavska had caught her by the shoulders, and 
looked in her eyes. 


2o6 


The Story Book Girls 

“Mademoiselle Mabel! From ze country! Madem- 
oiselle plays like zat! Hn?” 

He bowed grandly. 

“My apologies, Mees Mademoiselle Mabel. We vill 
haf a rehearsal.” 

He sang through part of his programme for a con- 
cert. Mabel energetically remarked afterwards to Jean 
that she had never really felt heavenly in her life 
before. 

“Oh, Jean,” she said, “/eaw.” 

“What would you,” said Herr Slavska. “You 
must also study a little, Mees Mademoiselle Mabel. You 
have great talent. Ah, if you could study in ze Bohemian 
school, Mees Mademoiselle. Hav I not said for years 
to these stupids stupids public, there is no school like 
to that of Prague. Now all ze violinists tumble tumble 
over ze one another to Sevcik to go. See, it is ze fate. 
If you could go to Prague, mademoiselle. Prague would 
make a great artiste of you.” 

Here was living, wonderful life for Mabel! If Herr 
Slavska thought so much of her, why should she not have 
lessons in London ? 

Mr. Leighton never received such a letter as he had 
from her next day. It was full of thanks for his having 
made her play so much and go to concerts when she was 
young. “Now I really know the literature of music. 
It’s the little slippy bits of technique that I’m not up in. 
I saw every one of them come out and hit me in the eye 
when I played for Herr Slavska. Do you think 
I could really stay and take lessons, dear papa ? It 
would prime me for such a lot. I’ve often thought 
about Cuthbert for instance, that it must be so jolly for 


‘‘Herr Slavska’’ 


him to feel primed. And after knowing life here, 
I’d only be more contented at home. It isn’t that one 
can’t be bored in London. I think you can far far more 
than anywhere. If you saw that girl with the pink 
bow ! She only dresses and dresses, one costume for 
the morning, another for the afternoon and so on. I 
suppose she has been taught to be a perfect lady. The 
girls in our house aren’t the crowd that believe in being 
like men or anything of that sort. They want to get 
married if they meet a nice enough husband. But 
nobody wants to get left, and it’s so nice to be primed 
for that. I’ve sometimes felt I might one day be ‘left,’ 
and it’s awful. I shouldn’t mind so much if I had a pro- 
fession. Jean is like a new girl. She’s full of breath- 
ings and ‘my method’ and all that kind of thing. And 
she has to have an egg flip every morning at eleven if you 
please. I’m longing to have a master who orders me 
egg flip, but they don’t do that for piano, do they ? 

“Oh, please, papa, say you don’t care for us for six 
months, and let us do you some credit at last. We were 
just little potty players at Ridgetown. ...” 

Mr. Leighton took a mild attack of influenza on the 
strength of this, but he was infinitely pleased at the en- 
thusiasm of Mabel. Mrs. Leighton got into the Aunt 
Katharine mood, where such “goings on” seemed 
iniquitous. 

“I don’t see why you should pay so much money to 
keep them out of their own home,” said she. 

By next post, she sent a hamper of cakes to the girls. « 

Then came a letter from Mr. Leighton, which Mabel 
locked in a little morocco case along with some other 
treasures, “to keep for ever.” 


2o8 


The Story Book Girls 

“I am to stay, and I’m to have lessons from any 
Vollendollenvallejowski I like to name,” she cried to 
Jean. The two rocked on a bamboo chair in happy 
abandonment till some explosive crackling sounds 
warned them that joy had its limits. 

Every girl in the house was invited into the tea ‘‘with 
cakes from home.” 

“What a love of a father and a duck of a mother we’ve 
got,” said the convalescent home-sick Jean. 


CHAPTER XX 


“The Shilling Seats” 

Jean owed a great debt to Isobel for having told her 
of Slavska, and acknowledged it extravagantly in every 
letter. Now there was the difficulty of finding a piano 
teacher; but here Mabel explained to Jean as nearly 
as she could why she could not seek the advice of Isobel. 
Isobel, if they knew, already lamented that she had given 
away Slavska, it was such an opening to the girls for being 
independent of her experience. Herr Slavska would recom- 
mend no one in London. 

“They all play for the stupids,’’ he declared. At 
last, in a better mood, he remembered a certain “Monsieur, 
Monsieur — Green.” 

Mabel laughed at the drop to a plain English name. 

“Ah no! Smile not,” said Herr Slavska. “His 
mother, of the Latin race, and his father, mark you, a 
Kelt 1 What wonder of a result ! I will introduce 
you to the Sir, Herr, Monsieur Green. He is young, 
but of Letschititsk. I recommend him.” 

There seemed nothing more to be said, except that 
two girls in the club knew Mr. Green’s playing and said 
that no one else really existed in London. A great deal 
underlay Herr Slavska’s “I recommend him.” 

209 


p 


210 


The Story Book Girls 

Mabel met one of the keenest enthusiasts of her life when 
she met Mr. Green. 

“Isn’t it queer,” said Jean afterwards, who, in spite 
of egg flips and methods, was in a dejected mood that 
day, “isn’t it queer that an old boy like Herr Slavska and 
a young one like Mr. Green should both have the same 
delusions. About music, I mean, being so keen on 
it.” 

“You can’t call that voice of Herr Slavska’s a delu- 
sion.” 

Mabel had been much impressed by what Mr. Green 
had said. 

“Mark you, at such an age there is no voice like Slavska’s 
in existence. Your sister is fortunate in learning his 
method.” 

“That’s what Mr. Slavska said,” Jean had answered 
amiably, and it had started Mr. Green off on his lessons 
with Mabel in a cheerful mood. 

“The Herr is not sparing of his compliments when 
it is himself that is concerned,” he said, laughing loudly. 
“But he can afford to tell the truth.” 

It seemed lovely to Mabel, this tribute from one man 
to another. 

“More than your old Slavska said of my man,” she told 
Jean. 

Mr. Green was a distracting teacher. He pulled 
Mabel’s playing down to decimals. Where she had 
formerly found her effects by merely feeling them, he 
subtracted feeling until she imagined she could not play 
piano at all. Then he began to build up her technique 
like a builder adding bricks to a wall. 

“You must imagine that you have eaten of the good 


‘‘The Shilling Seats’’ 


21 I 


things of life until you are a little ill, so that good or bad 
taste very much alike. Then you come to me for 
the cure. I diet you with uninteresting things, which 
you do not like, and you imagine I am hard because I 
do not allow you to eat. Then one day I give you a little 
tea and toast. Now, Miss Leighton, you have worked 
to curve the third finger a trifle more than you did. Will 
you play that study of Chopin which you once performed 
to me.” 

Mabel had practised dry technique and had kept 
cheerfully away from all ‘‘pieces” as directed. She 
played the study. 

“Bravo,” said Mr. Green. It was his first encourage- 
ment. 

“Why,” said Mabel, “how nice it is to be able to play 
it like that.” 

“It is your tea and toast,” said Mr. Green. 

Into their hard-working life came delightfully Adelaide 
Maud. Their enthusiasm carried her into scenes she 
had never visited. She attended concerts in the shilling 
seats, and took tea once at an A.B.C. The shilling seats 
fascinated Adelaide Maud. The composite crowd of 
girls, with excited interest; of budding men musicians, 
groomed and ungroomed, the latter disporting hair 
which fell on the forehead in Beethoven negligence, the 
dark, lowering musician’s scowl beneath — what pets 
they all were ! Pets in the zoological sense, some of them, 
but yet what pets ! She caught the infection of their ardour 
when a great or a new performer appeared. Had any 
crowd ever paid such homage to one of her set, never! 
Fancy inflaming hearts to that extent. Adelaide Maud 
could feel her pulses responding. 


212 


The Story Book Girls 

“Oh,” she said after one of these experiences when 
they were in Fuller’s and ate extravagantly of walnut 
cream cake, “it’s as much fun to me to go to these 

concerts, as it would be for you to — to ” It dawned 

on her that any comparison might not be polite. 

“To go to court,” said Mabel. 

“Oh, have you ever been presented?” asked Jean of 
Adelaide Maud. 

Mabel stared at her. All their life they had followed 
Adelaide Maud’s career, and Jean forgot that she had 
been presented. Adelaide Maud herself might have 
been a little hurt, but she was only amused. 

“I was — in Queen Victoria’s time. I’m an old stager, 
you know,” she said. 

“Wasn’t it lovely?” asked Jean, who had once called 
her passe. 

“I don’t think so,” said Adelaide Maud. “At least 
I happened to enjoy the wrong part, that was all. I 
loved going out with the sunshine pouring into the carriage 
and everybody staring at us. It was very hot and the 
windows had to be down, and I heard things. One girl 
said ‘ Oh, lollipops, look at ’er ’air. Dyed that is.’ Another 
quite gratified me by ejaculating in an Irish voice, 
‘Oh, the darlint.’ ‘You mustn’t,’ said her friend, 
‘she’ll ’ear you.’ ‘I mean the horses, stupid,’ said the 
girl. She had her eye on the Life Guards. Mamma 
was disgusted. But in the palace it was not nearly so 
distinguished. Nobody admired one at all, just hustled 
one by. I think we were cross all the time.” 

“I think it would be lovely to be cross in Buckingham 
Palace,” sighed Jean. 

They all laughed. Adelaide Maud in particular 


‘‘The Shilling Seats” 213 

seemed to be thinking about something which interested 
her. 

“Would it be fun for you to see some of the people 
who are going to the great ball?” she asked. “I don’t 
mean to go to the ball? but Lady Emily is to be at 
home for the early part of that evening and some 
people are coming in on the way. I asked her if I 
might have you to dinner — and she’s quite pleased 
about it.” 

Mabel and Jean sat in a blissful state of rapture. 
(“Lady Emily! The gorgeous and far-away Lady 
Emily!”) 

“Oh,” said Jean, “Elma would say, ‘I should be 
terrified.’” 

“And I should say we’ll be perfectly delighted,” 
said Mabel. 

It cost her no tremor at all to think of going. This 
reminded Adelaide Maud of Miss Grace’s prophecy 
that there was no sphere in life which Mabel could 
not enter becomingly. 

“Put on that pretty pink thing you wore in Ridge- 
town, lately,” she said. 

The name of Ridgetown brought them closer to 
realities. This was Miss Dudgeon of The Oaks with 
whom they ate cream cake. Jean said, “I’m sure 
to give the wrong titles. You don’t mind, I hope.” 

“No,” said Adelaide Maud. At the same time she 
was dying with the desire that they should do her 
infinite credit. Carefully she thought over the matter 
and then spoke. “In any case it’s so much a matter 
of one’s manner in doing it. I remember when Lady 
Betty was ill once, she had a very domineering nurse. 


214 


The Story Book Girls 

who tossed her head one time and said to me, ‘I sup- 
pose she wants me to be humble and “my lady” her, 
but not a bit of me.’ Then one of the most distin- 
guished surgeons in England was called in, and his 
first words were, ‘And how d’ye do, my " lady?’ He 
called her ‘my lady’ throughout, quite unusual, you 
know, and yet in so dignified and kind a manner, as 
though he were saying, ‘I know, but I prefer my own 
way in the matter.’” 

“What a drop to the nurse I” said Mabel. 

Jean looked reflective. 

“ Do you know, you’ve told me something I didn’t know,” 
she said. “I never quite knew how one ought to 
address Lady Emily. It’s so different at Ridgetown,” 
she exclaimed. 

Adelaide Maud seemed a little confused, but an- 
swered heartily. 

“Oh, none of it’s a trouble when you really meet 
people. They are so much simpler than one would 
think.” 

Mabel saw that Adelaide Maud had given them her 

first tip. It was sweetly done, but then ! Anyhow, 

they had given Adelaide Maud plenty of tips about 
getting in early to seats in the Queen’s Hall and minor 
affairs of that sort. Why shouldn’t the benefits work both 
ways? 

It was about the time of Elma’s ball, when they sent 
the white roses, and Adelaide Maud said she would help 
them to choose. 

“I should like to send little Elma a crown of pearls, 
but I daren’t,” said she with a sigh. “She’s such a pet, 
isn’t she!” 


“The Shilling Seats'’ 215 

“Timorous, but a pet,” said Jean with a broad 
smile. 

“She is holding the fort just now at any rate,” 
responded Mabel. 

They thought it would be all right to tell Adelaide Maud 
something of what Elma had written. 

“I trembled, of course,” Elma had said; “but the 
thing had to be done. I wouldn’t for a moment let 
you think that you couldn’t come home and slip in 
to the places that belong to you. Isobel would have 
possessed the whole house if I hadn’t played up. I 
don’t know why she wants to. It must be so much nicer 
not to have to bother about servants and table cen- 
tres. But she has never squeaked since I spoke about 
it. In fact, she won’t even speak to me unless some one 
is about, passes me without a word.” 

“Poor darling,” said Adelaide Maud; “what a worm 
your cousin must be.” 

“No, I don’t think she’s that,” said Mabel; “it’s just 
that she simply must rule, you know. She must have 
everything good that is going.” 

“H’m,” answered Adelaide Maud. “Why doesn’t 
that brother of yours go slashing about a little, and 
keep her from bullying Elma?” 

“Oh, Elma would never tell Cuthbert. Don’t you 
see it mightn’t be fair to prejudice him against Isobel? 
Isobel thinks such a lot of Cuthbert.” 

“Oh.” 

A long clinging silence depreciated the conversational 
prowess of Adelaide Maud. 

“Well,” she said, in a conventional voice, “We’ve had 
a lovely day. Let me know when you are going 


2i6 


The Story Book Girls 

to another concert. And I shall send you full par- 
ticulars about Lady Emily.” 

They were walking along Regent Street to find 
their shop for the flowers. It seemed that Adelaide 
Maud was about to desert them. She beckoned for 
a hansom and got inside. Mabel and Jean felt that 
they said good-bye to Miss Dudgeon of The Oaks. In 
another second they had gone on and Adelaide Maud had 
had her hansom pulled up beside them again. 

“Jean, Jean,” she called, quite radiant again. “I 
forgot the most important thing. It’s about lessons. 
Do you think that your Splashkaspitskoff would con- 
descend to give me some?” 

It was rather mad of Adelaide Maud, but she got out 
and paid off the hansom. 

“It isn’t so late as I thought it was,” she said lamely. 
But Mabel knew that she came to make up. 

Jean only thought of the lessons. 

“You will find him so splendid,” she said, “and such 
a gentleman.” 

“I like that,” said Mabel. “Why — he talks about the 
most revolting things.” 

“It’s his manners that are so wonderful,” said Jean 
in a championing manner. They had found their 
shop by this time and were looking at white roses. 
When Mabel said, “Do you think these are nice?” 
^Jean might be heard explaining, “It’s the method, you 
know, that is so wonderful.” 

And when at last they had decided about roses and 
arranged about the lessons, Adelaide Maud thought 
she must immediately buy a hat. 

“I quite forgot that I wanted a hat,” she said gravely. 


‘‘The Shilling Seats” 


217 

They went to one of the best shops, and sat in three 
chairs, with Adelaide Maud surrounded by mirrors. 
Tall girls sailed up like swans and laid a hat on her bright 
hair and walked away again. Adelaide Maud turned 
and twisted and looked lovely in about a dozen 
different hats. After looking specially superb in one, 
she would say, “Take that one away, I don’t like it at 
aU.” 

Occasionally the swans would put on a hat and sail 
about in order to show the effect. Then Adelaide 
Maud would look specially languid and appear more 
dissatisfied than ever. At last she fixed on one which 
contained what she called “a dead seagull.” 

“Why you spoil that pretty hat with a dead bird, I can’t 
think,” she exclaimed to the attendant. “Look at its 
little feet turned up in air.” 

Then, “You must take this bird out, and give me 
flowers.” 

She began pinning on her own hat again. In a second 
the bird was gone, and the swanlike personages, sailing 
over the grey white carpet, brought charming bunches of 
which they tried the effect “for modom.” 

“Oh, do get heliotrope,” said Mabel. “It’s so gorgeous 
with your hair.” 

Adelaide Maud swung round. 

“And I’ve been making up my mind to white for the 
last half-hour. How can you, Mabel ! ” 

She chose a mass of white roses, “dreaming in velvet.” 

Adelaide Maud rose, gave directions about sending, and 
prepared to leave. 

“Don’t you want to know the price?” asked Mabel in 
great amazement. 


2i8 


The Story Book Girls 

“Oh, of course.’’ 

Adelaide Maud asked the price. 

The total took Mabel’s breath away. 

“You must never marry a poor man,” said she as they 
passed out. Adelaide Maud stopped humbly in a passage 
of grey velvet and silver gilt. 

“Well, I never,” she said. Then walking on, she 
asked in a very humble, mocking tone, “Will you 
teach me, Mabs, how to shop so that I may marry a poor 
man ? ” 

Mabel laughed gaily. 

“Thank you,” said she. “That sounds as though you 
think that I ought to know. Am I to marry a 
poor man ? ” 

Adelaide Maud laughed outright, and took her gaily by 
the arm. 

“I didn’t mean that. I believe you will marry a duke. 
But you see — you think me so extravagant, and I might 
have to be poor.” 

“That dead seagull going cost you a guinea alone,” said 
Mabel accusingly. 

“And they kept the seagull,” said Adelaide Maud. “How 
wanton of me !” 

“I’ve had a very nice hat for a guinea,” said Mabel, 
with a smirk of suppressed laughter. 

“And yet you won’t marry a poor man,” said Adelaide 
Maud. “How unjust the world is.” 

They parted in better form than they had done an hour 
earlier. 

“Wasn’t she queer,” said Jean, “to go off like 
that?” 

“Queerer that she came back,” said Mabel. “Do 


‘‘The Shilling Seats” 219 

you know what I think? I believe Adelaide Maud bought 

that hat simply — simply 

“To kill time,” said Jean. 

“No. To stay with us a little longer,” said Mabel. 
“It’s more than any of the Dudgeons ever thought of 
doing before — if it’s true!” said blunt, robust Jean. 

“But I don’t believe it is,” said she. “Let’s scoot for 
that bus or we’ll lose it.” 

So they scooted for the bus. 


CHAPTER XXI 

“At Lady Emily’s” 

Adelaide Maud found herself possessed of quite a 
fervid longing. She wanted to see Mabel and Jean 
disport themselves with dignity at Lady Emily’s. 
What had always remained difficult in Ridgetown 
seemed to become curiously possible at Lady Emily’s, 
where indeed the highest in the land might be met. 
That she might make real friends of the two girls at 
last seemed to become a possibility. It was not merely 
the fact of Lady Emily’s being a “complete dear” 
that constituted the difference. It was more the 
absence of the Ridgetown standards. There were 
never upstarts to be found at Lady Emily’s. Her 
own character sifted her circle in an automatic manner. 
That which was vulgar or self-seeking had no response 
from her. Racy people found her dull, would-be 
smart persons quite inanimate. She could no more 
help being unresponsive to them than she could help 
being interested in others whom she respected. It was 
a distinguished circle which surrounded her, and those 
who never pierced it, never understood how easily it was 
formed, how inviolately kept. Occasionally Lady Emily’s 
“tact” was upheld as the secret of her power. 


220 


“At Lady Emily’s” 


221 


“And I have absolutely no tact at all,” she would 
moan. “I simply follow my impulses as a child 

would.” 

It was the unerring correctness of her impulses which 
made Adelaide Maud believe that she would welcome the 
Leightons. 

Lady Emily had married a brother of Mr. Dudgeon’s. 
Adelaide Maud’s devotion to her father’s memory put 
her uncle into the position of a kind of patron saint 
of her own existence. She sometimes thought that 
his character supplied a number of these impulses 
which made Lady Emily the dear she was. Lady 

Emily was the daughter of a duke, and had none of the 
aspirations of a climber, her family having climbed 
so long ago that any little beatings about a modern lad- 
der seemed ridiculous. Her brother was the present 
duke of course, and “made laws in London,” as Miss 
Grace used to describe it. This phantom of a duke, 
intermarried in a way into her family, had prevented 
Mrs. Dudgeon from knowing any of the Ridgetown 
people — intimately that is. Yet the duke never called, 

and Lady Emily wore her dull coat of reserve when 

in Mrs. Dudgeon’s company. Lady Emily’s heart 
went out, however, to the “golden-haired girls” who spent 
their seasons with her in London. 

She was perfectly sweet about the Leightons, and 
called at the girls’ club in state. What an honour ! 

The girls found their ideas tumbling. Lady Emily was 
much more “easy” than any one they had met. 

They prepared for the dinner quite light heartedly. 

After all, it could only be a dream. London was a 
dream. London in the early winter with mellow air. 


222 


The Story Book Girls 

only occasionally touched with frost, glittering lights 
in the evenings, and crowds of animated people. So 
different from the dew dripping avenues of streets at 
Ridgetown. 

They “skimmed’^ along in a hansom to Lady 
Emily’s and thought they were the most dashing 
persons in London. 

“But it’s only a dream, remember,” said Jean. 

They went in radiantly through wide portals. Foot- 
men moved out of adjacent corners and bowed them on 
automatically. 

Mabel loved it, but Jean for a few agonizing seconds 
felt over-weighted. 

Then “It’s only a dream !” 

They dreamed through a mile of corridor and ran into 
Adelaide Maud. 

The dream passed and they were chatting gaily at shil- 
ling seat gossip, and that sort of thing. 

Adelaide Maud made the maids skim about. They 
liked her, that was evident. Mabel and Jean were 
prinked up and complimented. 

“You are ducks, you know,” said Adelaide Maud. 

They proceeded to the drawing-room. 

Here the point was marked between the time when 
the girls had never known Mr. Dudgeon and the time 
when they did. Mabel never forgot that fine, spare 
figure, standing in a glitter of gilt panelled walls, of 
warm light from a fire and glimmering electric brackets, 
of pale colour from the rugs on the floor. He had 
the grey ascetic face of the scholarly man brought 
up in refinement and his expression contained a great 
amount of placidity. He had dark, scrutinizing eyes, 


“At Lady Emily’s” 


223 


and a kind mouth, where lines of laughter came and went. 
Jean approached tremblingly, for now it suddenly 
dawned on her that she had never been informed 
why the husband of Lady Emily should only be plain 
“Mr. Dudgeon.” Was this right, or had she not listened 
properly? Then Adelaide Maud said distinctly, “Mr. 
Dudgeon.” Jean concluded that it was their puzzle, 
not hers, and shook hands with him radiantly. Mabel 
only thought that at last she had met one more man 
who might be compared to her father. 

They sat down on couches of curved legs and high 
backs, “the kind of couches that make one manage to 
look as magnificent as possible,” as Jean described it. 
Mr. Dudgeon said Lady Emily was being indulged 
with a few moments’ grace. 

“It’s the one thing we have always to do for Lady Emily,” 
said he, “to give her a few minutes’ grace.” 

He began to talk to them in a quick, grave man- 
ner. 

Jean again informed herself, “It is a dream.” 

One would have thought that Mr. Dudgeon was 
really interested in them both. And how could he 
be — he — the husband of the daughter of a duke ! He 
asked all about how long they had known Adelaide Maud 
and so on. 

Mabel was not dreaming, however. She sat daintily 
on the high-backed couch and told Mr. Dudgeon about 
the Story Books. 

There they were, only ten minutes in the room, and 
Mr. Dudgeon who had never seen Mabel or Jean before 
was hearing all about the Story Books. 

And Adelaide Maud, who had begun to imagine she 


224 


The Story Book Girls 

knew the Leightons, heard this great fable for the first 
time in her life. 

“Uncle,” she said, “Uncle, isn’t this sweet, isn’t this 
fame?” 

“It is,” said he. 

“Do you wonder that I don’t go to the ball?” she 
asked. “And you’ve done this ever since you were 
children?” she asked. “Made fairies of us! And I’m 
‘Adelaide Maud,’ am I? Who once called me Ade- 
laide?” She looked puzzled. “Dear me, if only we 
had known. And not even Miss Grace to tell me!” 

“Oh, we bound them over,” said Mabel, “and no one 
else ever heard of it.” 

“She doesn’t tell you all,” said wicked Jean. “She 
doesn’t tell you that we sat behind you once at a concert, 
and Mabel saw, properly you know, how your blue dress 
was made.” 

“Oh, Jean, Jean,” said Mabel. 

“Yes, and had hers made just like it,” said Jean. She 
spread her hands a little. 

“Rucked down the front, you remember.” 

“Oh, I remember,” laughed Adelaide Maud. 

“And when you came to call — Mabel couldn’t put 
on her prettiest gown, because it was just like yours.” 

“Oh, Jean,” cried Mabel. 

In the midst of some laughter came in Lady Emily. 

“Well,” she said in a gentle way, “you people are en- 
joying yourselves, aren’t you?” 

Adelaide Maud knew then that the day was won 
for Mabel and Jean. Mr. Dudgeon was always a cer- 
tain quality, but Lady Emily — well, she had seen Lady 
Emily when people called her “dull.” It was wonder- 


225 


“At Lady Emily’s” 

ful with what grace Lady Emily adapted herself to the 
interests of two girls almost unknown to her. The effect 
might be gleaned from what Jean said afterwards. 

“Lady Emily was so sweet, I never bothered about 
forks or anything. There was such a love of a foot- 
man! I believe he shoved things into my hands just 
when I ought to use them. It always worries me to 
remember — when I’m talking — just like the figures 
at lancers, you know, but here they did everything for one 
except eat.” 

Lady Emily had on a beautiful diamond ornament 
at her throat, and another in her hair, and they scintil- 
lated in splendour. She wore a dress of white chiffon 
for the ball. 

“You insist on dragging me there?” Mr. Dudgeon 
asked several times. Whenever a pause occurred in 
the conversation he said, “You insist on carrying me off 
to this ball, don’t you?” 

Lady Emily also pretended that she had to go very 
much against her will. Mabel and Jean had never 
seen people set out to balls in this way before. They 
themselves had always their mad rush of dressing 
and their wild rush in the cloakroom for programmes, 
and a most enervating pause for partners and then 
the thing was done. But Lady Emily and Mr. Dudgeon 
tried to pan out the quiet part of the evening as far as it 
would pan out. 

Then came a trying time. 

In the drawing-room, quite late, very gorgeous people 
arrived. Jean was endeavouring to remember whether or 
not she took sugar with tea when the first of them came 
in. The spectacle made her seize three lumps one after 
Q 


226 


The Story Book Girls 

another, to gain time, when as a fact she never took more 
than one. They fell in a very flat small cup of tea and 
splashed it slightly in various directions. She was 
always very pleased to remember that she didn’t apologize 
to the footman. 

The gorgeous people seemed only to see Lady Emily 
and to talk to the electric light brackets. They said the 
ball was a bore. 

A rather magnificent and very stout personage settled 
himself near Mabel. He wore shining spectacles which 
magnified his eyes in a curious manner. 

“Hey, what, what,” he said to Mabel. “And you 
aren’t a Dudgeon ! Hey ! Thought you were one. 
Quite a lot of ’em, you know. Always croppin’ up. 
Golden hair, I remember. And yours is brownish. 
Ah, well. You’re a friend, you say. Quite as good, 
quite as good. Not going to the ball? Consider your- 
self in luck. Not a manjack but says the same. Why 
they make it a ball. Heaven knows. Never dance, you 
know. Hey what ! None of us able for it. Not so 
bad as levies though. There, imagine Slowbeetle 
in white calves. There he is, that old totterer. Yet 
he does it. Honour of his country, calls of etiquette and 
that sort of thing. You’re young, missed a lot of this, eh ! 
Well, it’s mostly farce, y’know. We prance a lot. Not 
always amusin’. Relief to know Lady Emily. No prance 
about her. Hey, what ! ” 

Adelaide Maud approached. 

“Ah, here we are. Thought you had dyed it. Golden 
as ever, my dear. Pleasant to see you again. Why 
aren’t you and this lady goin’? We could stay. In- 
stead of prancin’, eh ! ” 


At Lady Emily’s ” 


227 


The ill humour of having to go to the ball was on 
all of them evidently. But this spectacled benignity 
fascinated Mabel. He again was a “complete dear.” 

“I’m going to steal her,” said Adelaide Maud, indicat- 
ing Mabel, darkly; “you wait.” 

“Hey, what! I’ll report. Report to Lady Emily, 
y’know. Ye’ve taken my first partner. Hey, what 1 
Piano? Ah, well. Not in my line, but I’m with you.” 

He actually accompanied them to a long alcove where 
a piano stood half shrouded in flowers. Here Adelaide 
Maud had withdrawn the little party of Jean, Mabel and 
herself, that they might look and play a little and enjoy 
themselves. 

“Simpkins, more tea,” she whispered. “We didn’t 
have half enough.” 

It was an admirable picnic. Mabel played “any old 
thing,” as Adelaide Maud called it, ran on from one 
to another while they joked and talked and watched 
the “diplomatic circles” gathering force in the drawing- 
room. The spectacled gentleman sat himself down in 
complete enjoyment. 

^^D’ye know,” he said to Jean in the same detached 
manner and without any kind of introduction, “no 
use at that kind of thing,” indicating the piano, “but 
the girl can play. Fills me with content. Content’s 
the word. Difficult to find nowadays. She doesn’t 
strain. Not a bit. She smooths one down. A real 
talent. And a child! Hey, what, quite remarkable.” 

Lady Emily came slowly in. Two people talked 
to her. 

The spectacled gentleman rose, and they listened to 
him. 


228 


The Story Book Girls 

“Don’t interrupt, Lady Emily. She’s got the floor, 
y’know. I’ve heard prima donnas. Here too. And 
they didn’t smooth me down. Catch a note or two of 
this. It gives its effect, hey ? Gets your ear. Hey, 
what — if we had her in the House there might be hope 
for the country, hey, what 1 ” 

Lady Emily was pleased. 

She laid her hand on Mabel’s shoulder. 

“Are you liking this?” 

“Oh, it’s such a dream, and you are so lovely. Lady 
Emily, and it doesn’t seem real. So it’s very easy to play, 
you know.” 

“I should make them stop talking, but they came for 
that, you know. And you are playing so well, it’s 
too pretty an interlude. Helen didn’t tell me that you 
could play like this.” 

“And my new master makes me believe I can’t play 
a note,” said Mabel. “I shall tell him he is quite 
wrong, because you said so.” 

Aunt Katharine’s words came to her mind — playing 
at one end of the country no better than the other! 
Ah, well, it was newer, fresher, or something — taking 
it either way ! 

Of course it came to an end. The girls slipped out 
with Adelaide Maud and found the long corridor with the 
white room containing their wraps and two attentive maids. 
They were covered up in their cloaks, and watched one or 
two leave before them, as they stood looking down on them 
from the staircase. 

“Nobody will miss us,” said Adelaide Maud. “They 
are ‘going on,’ you know.” 

There was something rather sad in her voice. 


229 


At Lady Emily’s ” 

“They all go on to something or somebody, even 
that dear old Earl Knuptford, he will pick you at 
the same place next year that he found you at to-night, 
and say, ‘ Hey, whA;,’ and never think that both he and you 
have dropped twelve months out of your lives. It’s different 
at Ridgetown, isn’t it ? ” 

“Yes, there’s nothing to go on to at Ridgetown, is there ?” 
said Jean grimly. “And nobody to forget or to say, 
‘Hey, what,’ even if they had never met you before.” 

Her world was full of shining diplomas and she had 
chatted with an earl. 

Adelaide Maud looked softly after them. 

“Nothing to go on to at Ridgetown,” she murmured. 
“And no one to forget.” 

She smiled softly. 

“Ah ! well, it’s nice that there’s no one to forget.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


I 


“ The Engagement ” 

The night at Lady Emily’s was by no means a first 
step into a new and fashionable world. Mabel and 
Jean never doubted for a moment that they were any- 
thing but spectators of that brilliant gathering. Even 
Adelaide Maud was only a spectator. Lady Emily 
and her husband were different from the world in 
which they moved because they had hobbies and minor 
interests which they occasionally allowed to interfere 
with the usual routine. Mr. Dudgeon had been known 
to skip a state banquet for a book which he had just 
received. And Lady Emily would make such calls 
and give such invitations as resulted in that wonderful 
little dinner party. But as for any of her set being 
interested, why, there was no time for that. Place 
something in their way, like Mabel sitting on a couch, 
part of which Earl Knuptford desired to make use of, 
and one met a “belted Earl.” He became interested 
and dropped sentences pell-mell on Mabel’s astonished 
head. For days, Jean dreamed of large envelopes 
arriving — “The Earl and Countess of Knuptford 
request,” etc. 

(“You donkey, there’s no countess,” interjected 
230 


‘‘The Engagement” 231 

Mabel.) The Earl would as soon have thought of 
inviting the lamp post which brought his motor to a 
full stop and his Lordship’s gaze on it correspondingly. 
Bring these people to a pause in front of something, 
and they might delay themselves to interview it. But 
while one is not part of the machinery which takes 
them on, there is no chance of continuing the ac- 
quaintance. 

Adelaide Maud told them as much. It seemed to 
Mabel that Adelaide Maud wanted them to know that 
though she lived in this world, she was by no means 
of it. She enjoyed herself often quite as much in the 
shilling seats. Her view of things did not prevent 
Mabel and Jean from participating in benefits to be de- 
rived from the acquaintance of Lady Emily. There 
ensued a happy time when they had seats at the Opera, 
of which an autumn season was in full swing, of occa- 
sional concerts and drives, and once they went with 
Lady Emily and Mr. Dudgeon far into the country on 
a motor. For the rest, friends of their own looked 
them up, and they had hardly a moment unfilled 
with practising which was not devoted to going about 
and seeing the world of London. The Club improved 
with acquaintance, and it was wonderful how the very 
girls who annoyed Jean so much on her arrival became 
part of their very existence. ‘‘We are so dull,” she 
would write home, “because Violet has gone off for the 
week end,” or “We didn’t go out because Ethel and Ger- 
trude wanted us to have tea with them.” 

Adelaide Maud left for home. That was the 
tragic note of their visit. Then Cousin Harry turned up 
with his sister and her husband and offered to run them 


232 The Story Book Girls 

over to Paris for Christmas. Here the cup overflowed. 
Paris ! 

It was a new wrench for Mr. Leighton, who meant to 
get them home for Christmas and if possible keep them 
there. But he knew that a trip with Mrs. Boyne would 
be of another “seventh heaven” order, and once more 
he gave way. 

“Can you hold the fort a little longer?” wrote Mabel 
to Elma. 

Elma held the fort. 

She held it, wondering often what would come of it 
all. She was in the position of a younger sister to one 
she did not love. Isobel chaperoned her everywhere. 
They had reached a calm stage where they took each 
other in quite a polite manner, but never were con- 
fidential at all. Mr. and Mrs. Leighton saw the pohte- 
ness and were relieved. They saw further, and lamented 
IsobePs great friendship with the Merediths. It seemed 
to Mr. Leighton that, although he would much rather leave 
the affair alone, Isobel was in his care, that she was a hand- 
some, magnificent girl, and that she ought not to be offered 
calmly as a sort of second sacrifice to the caprices of Robin. 
He spoke to her one evening very gently about it when they 
were alone. 

“I thought I ought to tell you,” said Mr. Leighton, 
“that in a tacit sort of manner, Mr. Meredith attached 
himself very closely to Mabel. She was so young that 
I did not interfere, as now I am very much afraid I 
ought to have done. It is a little difficult, you see, 
for your aunt in particular, who is asked on every side, 
T had understood that Mabel was to marry Mr. Mere- 
dith.’ I want you to know of course that Mab^l never 


The Engagement” 


233 


will marry him now. I should see to that myself, if 
she had not already told me that she had no desire to. 
He is not tied in any way, except, as I consider, in 
the matter of honour. I did not interfere before, but 
at present I am almost compelled to. I’m before every- 
thing your guardian, my dear. I should like you to 
find a man worthy of yourself.” 

He had done it as kindly as he knew how. 

Isobel sat calmly gazing past him into the fire. There 
was no ruffling of her features. Only a faint suggestion 
of power against which it seemed luckless to fight. 

“I knew a good deal of this of course,” she said. 

“Oh.” Mr. Leighton started slightly. 

“Yes. But of course there is a similar tale of every 
man, and every girl — wherever they are boxed up in 
a place of this size. Somebody has to make love to 
somebody. I don’t suppose Mr. Meredith thought of 
marriage.” 

It seemed as though Mr. Leighton were the young, 
inexperienced person, and that Isobel was the one to 
impart knowledge. 

“In justice to Mr. Meredith, I do not know in the 
slightest what he thought. That is where my case 
loses its point. I ought to have known. I certainly, 
of course, think that I ought to know now.” 

“Oh,” said Isobel. She rose very simply and looked 
as placid as a lake on a calm morning. “That is very 
simple. Mr. Meredith intends to marry me whenever I 
give him the opportunity.” 

Mr. Leighton was thunderstruck. At the bottom of 
his mind, he was thankful now that “his girls” were 
away. Memories of the stumbling block which the 


234 


The Story Book Girls 

existence of Robin’s sister had before occasioned made 
him ask first, “Does Miss Meredith know?” 

He spoke in quite a calm manner. It frustrated 
Isobel for the moment, who had expected an outburst. 
She wavered slightly in her answer. 

“I don’t know,” she said. 

Mr. Leighton moved impatiently. 

“That is just it,” he said. “This young man makes 
tentative arrangements and leaves out the important par- 
ties to it. Miss Meredith is quite capable of upsetting 
her brother’s plans. Do you know it?” 

It seemed that Isobel did. It seemed that Miss 
Meredith was the one person who could ruflie her. 
From that day of negligently answering and partly 
snubbing her in the train, Isobel had showed a side 
of cool indifference to Miss Meredith. 

“I want you to know, Uncle, that I shall not consider 
Miss Meredith in the slightest.” 

Could this be a young girl? 

“Do you know what Mabel, what all of you did? 
You considered Miss Meredith. What were the con- 
sequences ? She gave Mabel away with both hands. 
She wants her brother to marry Miss Dudgeon. He 
won’t marry Miss Dudgeon. He will marry me.” 

She rose slightly. 

“And Miss Meredith won’t have the slightest possible 
say in the matter.” 

Mr. Leighton looked rather pale. He flicked quietly 
the ash from his cigar before answering her. 

“It’s a different way of dealing with people than 
I am accustomed to. Will you keep your decision open 
for a little yet?” 


“ The Engagement” 


23s 


“I shall, till summer, when we mean to be married.” 

There seemed to be no altering the fact that she was to 
be married. 

should be so sorry if, while here with me — with 
all of us, you did not find a man worthy of you.” 

“I won’t change my mind,” she said. 

“And Robin?” 

He had returned to the old term. 

“He didn’t change his mind before. Miss Meredith 
did it for him. I am quite alive to the fact that if 
Miss Meredith hadn’t interfered, and I hadn’t come, 
he would now be engaged to Mabel.” 

Mr. Leighton appeared dumfounded. 

“Do you care very much for him?” he asked. 

“Oh, yes.” Isobel looked almost helplessly at him. 
“He isn’t the man I dreamed of, but he is mine, you 
know. It has come to that.” 

She sank on her knees beside him, her eyes blazing. 

“Isn’t it an indignity for me, as much as for Mabel, 
to take what she didn’t want? You say she doesn’t 
want him. At first — oh ! I only desired to show my 
power. I always meant to marry a wealthier man. 
But it’s no use. He is a waverer, don’t I know it. 
I see him calculating whether I’m worth the racket. 
I see that — I ! Isn’t it deplorable ! But I mean to 
make a man of him. He never has been one before. 
And I mean to marry him, Uncle.” 

Mr. Leighton smoked and smoked at his cigar. He 
was beginning at last to fathom the nature that took what 
it wanted — with both hands. 

“Isobel,” he said gently, “let us drop all this 
question of Mabel. It isn’t that which comes upper- 


236 The Story Book Girls 

most now. It’s the question of what you lose by marry- 
ing in this way. Don’t you know that this dropping of 
Miss Meredith, this way of ‘paying her out,’ you know, 
well, it may give you Robin intact; but have you an 
idea what you may lose in the process? I don’t admire 
the girl, but — she is his sister. I have never known” — 
he threw away his cigar — “I have never yet known of 
a happy, a really happy marriage, where the happiness 
of two was built on the discomfiture of others. Won’t 
you reconsider the whole position of being down on 
Miss Meredith, and paying everybody out who was 
concerned in Robin’s affairs before you knew him ? 
Won’t you try to make your wedding a happiness to 
every one — even to Miss Meredith?” 

“Oh,” said Isobel, “I don’t know that the average 
bride thinks much of the happiness of relations. She 
has her trousseau and the guests to be invited, and 
all that sort of thing.” She turned over a book which 
was lying near. “I don’t think I should have time 
for Miss Meredith,” she said coldly. 

Mr. Leighton sat quite quietly. 

“Will you be married here?” he asked. 

A gleam came to Isobel ’s eyes. 

“That would be nice,” she said. There was the 
feeling of an answer to an invitation in her voice. 

“It’s at your disposal,” he said, “anything we can 
do for your happiness.” 

“Is that to show that I do nothing for anybody 
else’s?” Isobel was really grateful. 

“Perhaps.” He said it rather sadly. 

“I might make an endeavour over Sarah,” she 
said. 


‘‘The Engagement” 


237 


^‘You know, from the first, the day you came in the 
train, you told us you had ignored her, hadn’t you? 
She nursed Robin through a long illness. Saw him 
grow up and all that kind of thing. Never spared her- 
self in the matter of looking after him!’’ 

“Well?” asked Isobel. 

“Well,” said Mr. Leighton, “it’s rather pathetic 
isn’t it?” 

The day was won in a partial manner; for Isobel 
promised she would try to “ingratiate Sarah.” 

“It’s the wrong way of putting it, but it may make a 
beginning,” said Mr. Leighton. 

He further insisted on seeing Robin. That was a 
bad half-hour for every one, but for no one so partic- 
ularly as for Robin. He had evaded so many things 
with Mr. Leighton, and for once he found that gentler 
nature adamant. 

Nothing went quite so much against this gentler 
nature as having to arrange matters for Isobel. So 
Robin discovered. Yet already it made what Isobel 
called “a man of him.” He was a man to be ruled, 
and Mabel had placed herself under his ruling. Here 
was the real mischief. Isobel would take him firmly 
in hand. 

The girls were greatly mystified, Elma horrified. 
They had orders to take the news of Isobel’s engage- 
ment as though it might be an expected event, and 
certainly no sign was given that it was in the nature of 
a surprise. Jean could not understand Mabel when 
the news arrived. She laughed and sang and kissed 
Jean as though the world had suddenly become happy 
throughout. 


238 The Story Book Girls 

‘‘I thought you would have been cut up,” said Jean 
disconsolately. 

“Cut up! Why, they are made for one another,” 
cried Mabel. “Isobel, calm and firm, Robin, waver- 
ing and admiring, nothing could be better. But oh — 
oh — I want to see how Sarah takes it.” 

They had a particular grind just then, for now they 
were getting into spring and it would soon be time for 
making that triumphant passage home of which they 
had so often dreamed. They lived for that now, but 
none lived for it more devotedly than Elma. 

IsobePs engagement cut her further and further 
away from enjoying anything very much. She had 
always the feeling of cold critical eyes being on her. 
She often congratulated herself on having got over the 
stage where she used long words in quite their wrong 
sense. IsobePs proximity in these days would have 
been dreadful. 

Miss Grace also seemed downhearted. It had been 
a trying winter for her, yet no actual evidence of ill- 
health had asserted itself. She was concerned about 
Elma too, who seemed to be losing what the others 
were gaining by being away, that just development 
which comes from happy experience. Elma plodded 
and played, but her bright little soul only came out 
unfledged of fear at Miss Grace’s. 

At last one day Miss Grace’s face lit. 

“My dear, your gift is composition.” 

Nobody had ever thought of it before. Elma’s 

expression lightened to a transforming radiance. 

“Oh, I wonder if I ever could get lessons!” she cried. 

They discovered a chance, through correspondence. 


“The Engagement” 239 

So Elma held the fort, and tried to grapple single-handed 
with musical composition. 

‘‘If only I could compose an anthem before Mabel 
and Jean get home !” she said one day. 

“Heavens, Elma, you aren’t going to die?” asked 
Betty. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


“ Holding the Fort ’’ 

Miss Meredith took the news of her brother’s engage- 
ment in a dumb manner. An explosion of wrath would 
have helped every one. Robin might have appeared 
aggrieved, and had something of which to complain, 
and Isobel’s immobility beside some one in a rage was 
always effective. Miss Meredith would not rage, 
however. She had met a match for her own re- 
sourceful methods, and at bottom she feared the reserve 
of power which prompted Isobel. Under cover of a fine 
frown she accepted the situation as Isobel had said 
she would. What hopes were overthrown by the 
engagement, what schemes upturned, no one but Miss 
Meredith herself would ever have an inkling. She 
began to regret her manner of ejecting Mabel, especially 
since the London reports told of a Mabel many cuts 
above Ridgetown. Miss Dudgeon had opened their 
eyes. She had come back in armour, the old Ridge- 
town armour, and talked in the stiffest manner of Mabel 
and Lady Emily, as though all were of a piece. Miss 
Meredith ventured to say to her later on that she under- 
stood that Mabel was quite a success in ^‘Society.” 

‘‘She always was, wasn’t she?” asked Adelaide 
240 


"‘Holding the Fort” 241 

Maud very simply, as though she imagined society 
had really existed in Ridgetown. 

Miss Meredith was a trifle overcast. 

“Oh yes, yes, of course,^’ she said. “But Mabel, 
of course, Mabel 

“Mabel would shine anywhere, you mean. That is 
true. She possesses the gift of being always divinely 
natural.” 

Adelaide Maud could play up better than any one. 
Miss Dudgeon ran on to congratulate Miss Meredith 
on her brother’s engagement. 

“Ah yes, such a charming girl,” said Miss Meredith. 
“He is very fortunate. We both are, since it relates 
us to so delightful a family. We have always been 
such friends.” 

There was a stiff pause. Adelaide Maud could never 
bring herself to fill in the pauses between social untruth- 
fulnesses. 

“She is very courageous, we think,” ran on Miss 
Meredith. “Robin will not be able to give her very 
much of an establishment, you know. But that does 
not grieve her. She has a very even and contented 
disposition. I often tell Robin — quite a girl in a hun- 
dred ! Not many would have consented so sweetly to 
an immediate marriage under the circumstances.” 

Ah, then, this might explain to the public the defec- 
tion of Mabel. Mabel had expected an “establish- 
ment.” Miss Dudgeon began to see daylight. 

“Oh, on the contrary,” she said, rising, “we have al- 
ways looked on Mr. Meredith as being so well off in 
respect of being able to get married. Didn’t you tell 
me once? — but then I have such a stupid memory!” 


242 


The Story Book Girls 

Miss Meredith recognized where a great slip had 
taken place. These had been her words before, “Not 
many young men are in so easy a position for marry- 
ing !” And to Miss Dudgeon of all people she had just 
said the reverse. 

There is a pit formed by a bad memory wherein social 
untruths sometimes tumble in company. There they 
are inclined to raise a laugh at themselves, and occasion- 
ally make more honest people out of their perpetrators. 

Miss Meredith knew there was no use in any longer 
explaining Robin’s position, or want of it, to so clear- 
headed a person as Miss Dudgeon. The best way 
was to retire as speedily as possible from so difficult a 
subject. 

Mrs. Leighton found the whole affair very trying. 
She never indulged in any social doctoring where her 
own opinions were concerned, and it was really painful 
for her to meet all the innuendoes cast at her by curious 
people. 

“Oh, Mr. Leighton and I always think young people 
manage these things best themselves. They are so 
sensitive, you know, and quite apt to make mistakes if 
dictated to. A critical audience must be very trying. 
Yes, everybody thought Robin was engaged to Mabel — 
but he never was.” 

“Well then,” said Aunt Katharine, with her lips 
pursed up to sticking-point, “if they weren’t engaged, 
they ought to have been. That’s all I’ve got to say.” 

It was not all she had got to say, as it turned out. She 
talked for quite a long time about the duties of chil- 
dren to their parents. 

Mrs. Leighton at last became really exasperated. 


“Holding the Fort” 


243 

“You know, Katharine,” she said, “if you are so 
down on these young people, I shall one day — I really 
shall, — I shall tell them how you nearly ran away with James 
Shrimpton.” 

“My dear,” said Aunt Katharine. She was quite 
shocked. “I was a young unformed thing and father 

so overbearing ” She was so hurt she could go 

no further. 

“Exactly,” said Mrs. Leighton. “And my girls 
are young unformed things, and their father is not 
overbearing.” 

Aunt Katharine grunted. 

“Ah well, you keep their confidence. That’s true. 
I don’t know a more united family. But this marriage 
of Isobel’s does not say much for your management.” 

That was it — “management.” Mrs. Leighton 
groaned slightly to herself. She never would be a 
manager, she felt sure. She offered a passive front to 
fate, and her influence stopped there. As for manoeu- 
vring fate by holding the reins a trifle and pressing back- 
ward or forward, she had not the inclination at any time 
to interfere in such a way at all. She leaned on what 
Emerson had said about things “gravitating.” She 
believed that things gravitated in the right direction, 
so long as one endeavoured to remain pure and noble, 
in the wrong one so long as one was overbearing and 
selfish. She had absolutely no fear as to how things 
would gravitate for Mabel after that night when she 
talked about Robin and went off to succour Jean. 

She placidly returned to her crochet, and to the 
complainings of Aunt Katharine. 

Cuthbert came dov/n that evening, and Isobel, Elma, 


244 


The Story Book Girls 

Betty and he went off to be grown-ups at a children’s 
party at the Turbervilles. The party progressed into 
rather a “larky” dance, where there were as many 
grown-ups as children. All the first friends of the 
Leightons were there, including, of course, the Mere- 
diths. Cuthbert took in Isobel in rather a frigid manner. 
He endeavoured not to consider Meredith a cad, but his 
feelings in that direction were overweighted for the 
evening. He danced with the children, and “was no 
use for anybody else,” as May Turberville put it. But 
then Cuthbert was so “ghastly clever and all that sort 
of thing,” that he could not be put on the level of other 
people at all. 

Cuthbert had got his summer lectureship. He told 
Elma, and then Mr. and Mrs. Leighton, and then Betty, 
and Isobel could not imagine what spark of mischief had 
lit their spirits to the point of revelry as they am- 
bled along in their slow four-wheeler. Elma had only 
one despair in her mind. Neither Miss Grace nor Miss 
Annie were well. Miss Annie particularly seemed out 
of gear, so much so and so definitely, that for the first 
time for nearly thirty years Miss Grace spoke of having in 
Dr. Merryweather. 

Cuthbert asked lots of questions. 

“I don’t know,” Elma generally answered. “She 
just lies and sickens. As though she didn’t care.” 

She raised her hand to her head at the time. 

“Dr. Smith says it’s the spring weather which every- 
body feels specially trying this year.” 

Cuthbert grunted. 

George Maclean came to Elma for the first dance. 
He seemed in very good spirits. Elma found herself 


“Holding the Fort” 


245 


wondering if it were about Mabel. Well, one would see. 
Mabel had always been tied in a kind of a way, and now 
she was free 1 Mr. Maclean anyhow was the best, 
above all the best. Even Mr. Symington ! When she 
thought of him, her mind always ran off to wondering 
what now might happen to Mr. Symington. 

She had a long, rollicking waltz with Mr. Maclean. 
They rollicked, because children were on the floor 
and steering seemed out of fashion. Yet he carried 
her round in a gentle way, because Elma, with 
her desire to be the best of dancers, invariably got 
knocked out with a robust partner. He carried her 
round in the most gentle way until the music stopped 
with the bang, bang of an energetic amateur. Elma 
found the floor suddenly hit her on the cheek in what 
seemed to her a most impossible manner. 

“Now what could make it do that?” she asked Mr. 
Maclean. He was bending over her with rather a white 
face. 

Cuthbert came up. 

“Why didn’t you tell Maclean that you were giddy?” 
he said. “He would have held you up.” 

“But I wasn’t giddy,” said Elma. “I’m not giddy 
now.” 

She was standing, but the floor again seemed at a 
slant. 

“Steady,” said Cuthbert. “You’re as giddy as the 
giddiest. Don’t pretend. Take her off to get cool, 
Maclean.” 

Cool 1 Elma’s fingers seemed icy. But there was 
a comforting, light-headed glow in her cheeks which 
reassured her. 


246 The Story Book Girls 

Every one said how well she was looking, and that 
kept her from wondering whether she was really going 
to be ill. George Maclean tried to get her to drink tea, 
but for the first time in her life she found herself pos- 
sessed of a passion for lemonade. 

“You would really think that I am one of the children,” 
she said, “because I am simply devoured with a longing 
for iced lemonade.” 

“Well, you shall have iced lemonade, and as much 
as you want,” said George Maclean. “How I could 
let you fall, I can’t think.” There was a most ludicrous 
look of concern on his face. 

“I shall grab all my prospective partners for this 
evening at least,” said Elma. “You can’t think how 
treacherous that floor is.” 

She did not dance nearly so much as she wanted to. 
George Maclean and Lance and Cuthbert, these three, 
at least, made her sit out when she wanted to be “skip- 
ping.” 

Isobel looked her up on hearing that she had fallen. 
Cuthbert said, “She doesn’t look well, you know.” 

“Why, Elma — Elma is never ill,” said Isobel. “Look 
at her colour too!” 

Towards the end of the evening, they began to forget 
about it, and Elma danced almost as usual. Three 
times she saw the floor rock, but held on. What her 
partners thought of her when she clung to a strong arm, 
she did not stop to think. It was “talking to Miss 
Annie in her stuffy room” that had started it, she 
remembered. 

She was in an exalted frame of mind about other 
things. The world was turning golden. Cuthbert 


“Holding the Fort” 


247 


was coming home, Mabel and Jean would soon be 
with them, Adelaide Maud was already on the spot. 
And Isobel would be gone in the summer. 

Robin Meredith came to ask her for a dance. He 
seemed subdued, and had a rather nervous manner of 
inviting her. So that it seemed easy for her to be sedate 
and beg him to excuse her because she had turned giddy. 
Anything ! she could stand anything on that evening 
except dance with Robin Meredith. Her training in 
many old ways came back to her, however. 

“I shall sit out, if you don’t mind,” she said. “Isn’t 
it silly to have a headache when all this fun is going 
on?” She found herself being quite friendly and 
natural with him. The children were having a great 
romp in front of them. 

“Have you a headache?” he asked rather kindly. 

Oh yes, she had a headache. Now she knew. It 
seemed to have been going on for years. She began to 
talk about May Turberville’s embroidery, and how 
Lance had sewn a pincushion in order to outrival her. 
When May had run on to sewing daffodils on her gowns, 
Lance threatened to embroider sunflowers on his waist- 
coats. Had he seen Lance’s pictures ? Well, Lance 
was really, awfully clever, particularly in drawing 
figures. Mr. Leighton wanted him to say he would 
be an artist, but Lance said he couldn’t stand the clothes 
he would have to wear. Mr. Leighton said that wearing 
a velveteen coat didn’t mean nowadays that one was 
an artist, and Lance said that it was the only way 
of drawing the attention of the public. He said that 
one always required some kind of a showman to call 
out “Walk up, gentlemen, this way to the priceless 


248 The Story Book Girls 

treasures,” and that a velveteen coat did all that for 
an artist. Lance said he would rather be on the Stock 
Exchange, where he could do his own shouting. She 
said that frankly with all the knowledge she had of 
Lance and his manner of giving people away, she should 
never think of entrusting him with her money to invest. 
She said it in a very high voice, since she observed just 
at that minute that Lance stood behind her chair. 

“Well, you are a little cat, Elma,” he said disdain- 
fully. “Here am I organizing a party in order to let 
people know that some day I shall be on the Stock 
Exchange, and here are you influencing the gully public 
against me.” 

“I object to the term ‘gully,’” said Robin in a 
laboured but sporting manner. 

“Well — gulled if you like it better,” said Lance. 
“Only that effect doesn’t come on till I’m done with 
you. You are to go and dance lancers, Meredith, while 
I take your place with this slanderer.” It was Lance’s 
way of asking for the next dance. 

Elma gave a great sigh of relief after Robin had 
gone. 

“He never heard me say so much in his life before,” 
said she. “He must have been awfully surprised.” 

“How you can say a word to the fellow — but there, 
nobody understands you Leightons. You ought to have 
poisoned him. Or perhaps Mabel is only a little flirt.” 

He wisped a thread of the gauze of her fan. 

Elma smiled at him. She was always sure of Lance. 

“I say, Elma, what are we to do with Mother Mabel 
when she comes back? Does she mind this business, 
or are we allowed to refer to it in a jovial way?” 


‘‘Holding the Fort” 249 

“Jovial, I think,’’ said Elma. “I believe Mabs is 
avidully relieved.” 

She bent over and whispered to Lance. 

“I should myself, you know, if I had just got rid of 
Robin.” 

Lance laughed immoderately. 

“He’s a rum chap,” he said, “but he’s met a good 
match in Isobel. Great Scott, look at the stride on her. 
She could take Robin up and twist him into macaroni 
if she wanted to. I’m sorry for him.” 

“What are you going to do for Sarah?” he asked 
abruptly. 

“Sarah?” asked Elma with her eyes wide. 

“Yes, you’ll have to marry the girl or something. 
It’s hard nuts on her. Why don’t you get Symington 
back and let him make up the quartette?” 

“Mr. Symington?” 

“Yes. It would be most appropriate, wouldn’t it? 
Robin and Isobel, and Symington and Sarah. It’s quite 
a neat arrangement. You’ve provided one husband, 
why not the other.” Several demons of mischief 
danced in Lance’s eye. 

“Oh, Lance, don’t say that,” said Elma; “it’s so horrid, 
and — and common.” 

“Oh, it’s common, is it?” said Lance, “common? 
And I’m going to be your stockbroker one day, and 
you talk to me like this?” 

“Look here, Lance, I’d trust you with all my worldly 
wealth on the Stock Exchange, but I won’t let you joke 
about Mr. Symington.” 

“Whew,” said Lance, and he looked gently and 
amiably into the eyes of Ehna. 


250 The Story Book Girls 

‘‘When you look good like that, I know you are 
exceedingly naughty. What is it this time, Lance?” 

“Nothing, Elma, except ” 

“Except ” 

“That I have found out all I wanted to know about 
Symington, thank you.” 

“You are just a common, low little gossip, Lance,” 
said Elma with great severity. “Will you please get me 
a nice cool glass of iced lemonade?” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


The Ham Sandwich 

Elma lay on her bed in the pink and white room. The 
first warm spring sunshine in vain tried to find an 
opening to filter through partly closed shutter and 
blinds. A nurse in grey dress and white cap and apron 

moved silently in the half-light created by drawn 

blinds and an open door. She nodded to Mrs. Leighton 
who had just come in and who now sat near the dark- 
ened window. The nurse pointedly referred her to 

the bed, as though she had good news for her. 

Elma opened her eyes. Their misty violet seemed 

dazed with long sleep. 

“Oh, mummy, you there?” she asked. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Leighton quietly. 

Elma looked at her inquiringly. 

“Is there anything you want?” asked Mrs. Leighton 
in answer to that expression. How often had they 
asked the same question uselessly within the past 
weeks ! 

Elma looked up at the white walls. 

“Yes, mummy, there’s one thing. I should like a 
large ham sandwich.” 

“There,” said Nurse emphatically. “That’s it. 
Now the fight is really going to begin.” 

251 


252 The Story Book Girls 

“I should like to have plenty of butter on it and 
quite a lot of mustard,” said Elma. 

“Mustard?” said Mrs. Leighton helplessly. “Do you 
know what’s been wrong with you all these weeks ? ” 

Elma moved her eyes curiously, there being not 
much else that she could move. It had never dawned 
on her till that moment to wonder what had been 
wrong with her. 

“No, mummy,” she said, “I haven’t a notion.” 

Mrs. Leighton looked for instructions to the nurse. 

“She’d better know now, Mrs. Leighton,” she said, 
“now that she begins to ask for ham sandwiches.” 

“You’ve had typhoid fever, Elma,” said her mother. 

Elma sighed gently. 

“Dear me,” she said, “how grand. But you don’t 
know how hungry I am or you would give me a ham 
sandwich. You ought to be rather glad that I’m so 
much better that I want to eat.” 

Then an expression of great cunning came into her 
eyes. 

“I ought to be fed up if I’ve had a fever,” she in- 
formed them. 

“We shall get the doctor to see to that,” said the 
nurse. 

She came to her and held her hand firmly. 

“Do you know,” she said, “you have been very ill 
and you are ever so much better, but nothing you’ve 
gone through will worry you so much as what you’ve 
got to do now. You’ve got to be starved for ten days, 
when you are longing to eat. You will lie dreaming 
of food — and ” 

“Ham sandwiches?” asked Elma. 


The Ham Sandwich 253 

“And we shall not be allowed to give them to you,” 
said Nurse. 

“Isn’t she nice, mummy, she’s quite sorry. And 
people say that nurses are hard-hearted,” said Elma. 

“I’ve had t)q)hoid myself,” said Nurse briefly. 

Elma looked at her, her own eyelids heavy with sleep 
still to be made up. 

“Well, barring the sandwich, what about lemon 
cheese cakes?” she asked. 

Mrs. Leighton let her hands fall. 

“Oh, Elma,” she said, “what a thing to choose 
at this stage.” 

“Or sausages,” remarked Elma. “I’m simply long- 
ing for sausages.” 

She endeavoured to throw an appealing look towards 
Nurse. 

“This isn’t humour on my part, mummy dear,” 
she said. “I just can’t help it. I can’t get sausages 
out of my mind,” she said. 

“If you would think of a little steamed fish or a 
soaked rusk, you’d be a little nearer it,” said Nurse, 
“you’ll have that in ten days.” 

Elma looked at her in a determined way. 

“I’ve always been told that a simple lunch, a very 
simple lunch, might be made out of a ham sandwich. Why 
should it be denied to me now?” 

“Elma,” said Mrs. Leighton, “I never knew you were 
so obstinate.” 

“You know, mummy,” said Elma, “I’m not dream- 
ing now. I’m wide awake, and I’m awfully hungry. 
I’m sorry I ever thought of sausages, because ham 
sandwiches were just about as much as I could bear. 


254 The Story Book Girls 

Now I’ve both to think of, and Nurse won’t bring 
me either.” 

“Don’t mind her, Mrs. Leighton,” said the nurse. 
“It’s always the same, and, without nurses, generally 
a relapse to follow. You aren’t going to have a re- 
lapse,” she said to Elma. 

She gave her some milk in a methodical manner, and 
the down-dropping of Elma’s eyelids continued till she 
fell asleep once more. 

So she had slept since the fever had begun to go 
down. Probably she had had the best of the inter- 
vening weeks. 

There was the slow stupor of a fever gaining ground. 
It began with the headache of the Turberville’s dance, 
a headache which never lifted until Elma returned to 
her own again, weak and prostrate in bed. The stupor 
gradually cut her off from common affairs. It sent 
her to bed first because she could no longer stand up, 
and it crowded back her ideas and her memory till at 
last she was in the full swing of a delirium. What 
this illness cost Mr. and Mrs. Leighton in anxiety, prob- 
ably no one knew. Elma had always covered up her 
claims to sympathy and petting, always been moder- 
ately well. Here she was with blazing cheeks and 
wandering eyes talking largely and at random about 
anything or every one. 

Mr. Leighton used to sit by her and stroke her hair. 
Long years afterwards, she was to feel the touch of 
his fingers, hear the tones of his voice as he said, “Poor 
little Elma.” 

She faded gradually into the delirium which seemed 
to have cut her illness in two, the one illness where she 


The Ham Sandwich 


255 

lay with dry mouth and an everlasting headache, the 
other where she was merely hungry. 

Mrs. Leighton was appalled by the worrying of Lima’s 
mind. She went through some of her wild dreams with 
her, calling her back at places by the mere sound of 
her voice to a kind of sub-consciousness when Lima 
grew infinitely relieved. 

“Oh, is that you, mummy? Have I really been 
dreaming ? ” 

She dreamt of Mabel and she dreamt of Adelaide 
Maud. But more than any one, she dreamt of Mr. 
Symington. Here is where the deceptiveness of a 
fever comes in. Lima pleaded so piteously with her 
mother to bring back Mr. Symington that Mrs. Leighton 
awoke to an entirely new and wrong idea of the state of 
Lima’s affections. 

“It’s quite ridiculous, John,” said she, “but that 
child, she was only a child, seems to have filled her 
head with notions of Mr. Symington.” 

“What! More of it?” asked poor Mr. Leigh- 

ton. 

“She begs and begs to have him back,” said Mrs. 
Leighton. 

“I’ve never made out why he left as he did,” said 
Mr. Leighton. “There was always the idea with me 
that he cleared out for a reason. But this small child, 
why, she hadn’t her hair up.” 

“She will soon be eighteen,” said Mrs. Leighton. 

He went into her room a little later. Lima lay 
with unseeing eyes staring at him. He could hardly 
bear it. 

“Lima,” he said vaguely, trying to recall her. 


256 The Story Book Girls 

“Oh,” she answered promptly, but still staring, 
“is that you, Sym — Sym — Symington!” 

Her father choked down what he could of the lump 
that gathered, and moved quietly away. 

These were dark days for every one. Elma had the 
best of it. She left the Symington groove after a day 
or so, and worked on to Isobel. Isobel invaded her 
mind. It was a blessing that Isobel was barred by 
real distaste to the business from going in to help 
with the nursing of Elma. What she said of her pointed 
to more than a mere dislike. It resolved into fear as 
the delirium progressed. Then a second nurse arrived, 
and between them the two began really to decrease the 
temperature. The first good news came, “Asleep for 
ten minutes,” and after that there was no backward turn 
in the illness for Elma. 

Throughout this time there had been the keenest 
inquiries made as to what had caused the illness. Cuth- 
bert was down and “made things hum” in the matter 
of wakening up the sanitary authorities and so on. 
But no flaw in the arrangement of the White House 
or anything near it could be discovered. Then Dr. 
Merryweather called one day. 

“I have another patient in Miss Annie,” he said. 

Miss Annie 1 This gave a clue. 

“Typhoid at her age is unusual,” he said, “but she 
has not developed the power of resisting disease like 
ordinary people. She has been in a good condition 
for harbouring every germ that happened to be about. 
I’m afraid we cannot save her.” He turned to Mrs. Leigh- 
ton. His kind old face twitched suddenly. 

“Oh, dear, dear,” she exclaimed. “What will 
Miss Grace do? What will little Elma do?” 


The Ham Sandwich 


257 


‘^Miss Grace is all right/’ said Dr. Merryweather. 
“I’ve seen to that. Elma must not know, of course.” 

“This looks like contraction from a common cause,” 
said Cuthbert. “I’ll be at it whatever it is. We 
don’t want any one else sacrificed.” 

Dr. Merryweather looked at him gravely. 

“I have just been getting at the tactics of the local 
government,” said he. “You couldn’t believe they 
could be so prompt in Ridgetown. Three weeks ago, 
a gardener living near Miss Annie complained of an 
atrocious stench coming from over the railway. It 
was so bad that when the local government body at 
his demand approached it, they had to turn and run. 
An open stream had been used as a common sewer and 
run into the railway cutting, where it had stagnated. 
Can you imagine the promptness of the local govern- 
ment ? Evans, the gardener, threatened to report 
to you, Mr. Leighton, since your daughter was so ill and 
had visited so much at Miss Annie’s. They managed 
to keep his mouth shut, and they have removed the 
sewer. Too late for Miss Annie.” 

“Too late for my little girl,” said Mr. Leighton. 

It seemed an extraordinary thing that the two daugh- 
ters who had gone away, and given them so much 
anxiety, should be coming home radiantly independent, 
and Elma, sheltered at home, should be lying just lately 
rescued from death. 

The same thought seemed to strike Dr. Merryweather 
in another connection. 

“Ah, well,” he said, “we would save some gentle 
souls a lot of suffering if we could. It’s no use evading 
life, you see, and its consequences. Death has stolen 


258 The Story Book Girls 

into Miss Annie’s beautiful bedroom, from an ugly 
sewer across the way. Nothing we could do for her 
now can save her.” 

Miss Annie died on a quiet morning when Elma 
lay dreaming of ham sandwiches. Elma never forgot 
that, nor how dreadful it seemed that she had never 
asked for Miss Annie nor Miss Grace, but just dreamed 
of what she would eat. 

“You had had a lot to stand,” Nurse told her a week 
or two afterwards when she heard about Miss Annie 
for the first time, “and it’s a compensation that’s 
often given to us when we are ill, just to be peaceful and 
not think at all.” 

Dr. Merryweather had wakened up Miss Grace finally 
in a sharp manner. 

“There’s that poor child been ill all this time and 
you’ve never even seen her. Take her along some 
flowers and let her see that you are not grieving too 
much for Miss Annie. She won’t get better if she worries 
about you.” 

Then to Elma. 

“Cheer up Miss Grace when she comes. You have 
your life before you, and she has had to put all hers 
behind her. Don’t let her be down if you can help 
it.” 

In this wise he pitted the two against one another, so 
that they met with great fortitude. 

“Why, my deaf, how pretty your hair is,” Miss 
Grace had burst out. 

Elma was lying on a couch near the window by this 
time. She looked infinitely fragile. 

“ Oh, Miss Grace, it is a wig,” she replied. 


The Ham Sandwich 


259 

Miss Grace laughed in a jerky hysterical sort of manner. 

“Then I wish I wore a wig,” said she. 

Elma smiled. 

“Do you know, that’s what they all say. They 
come in and tell me in a most surprised manner, ‘Why, 
how well you are looking!’ and say they never saw 
me so pretty and all that kind of thing. And then I 
look in my mirror, and I see quite plainly that I’m a per- 
fect fright. But I don’t care, you know. Mabel and 
Jean know now how ill I’ve been. I’m so glad they 
didn’t before, aren’t you? It would have spoiled Jean’s 
coming home like a conqueror. They say she sings 
beautifully. And oh. Miss Grace, I’ve such a lot to 
tell you. One thing is about Mr. Symington. You 
know I never said why he went away. It was because 
Miss Meredith made him believe that Robin was engaged 
to Mabel, and she wasn’t at all. It made her appear 
like a flirt, you know. Didn’t it?” 

Miss Grace nodded. 

“Well, I’ve been thinking and thinking. I can’t tell 
you how I’ve been dreaming about Mr. Symington. 
Well, now, I’ve been thinking, ‘Couldn’t we invite him to 
Isobel’s wedding ? ’ ” 

Miss Grace’s eyes gleamed. 

“Fancy Mr. Symington at breakfast in his chambers 
at some outlandish place. A letter arrives. He opens 
it. ‘ Ha 1 The wedding invitation. Robin Meredith, 
the bounder!’ I beg your pardon. Miss Grace. ‘Robin 
Meredith to Isobel — what? — niece of — why, what’s this?’ 
What will he do. Miss Grace?” 

“Come to the wedding, sure,” said Miss Grace laugh- 
ingly. 


26 o 


The Story Book Girls 

“Well, if I’ve to send the invitation myself, one is going 
to Mr. Symington.” 

Elma had not passed her dreaming hours in vain. 

Besides, Miss Grace had got over the difficult part 
of meeting Elma again, and was right back in her old part 
of counsellor, evidently without a quiver of the pain 
that divided them. Yet, they both felt the barrier that 
was there, the barrier of that presence of Miss Annie 
which had always entered first into their conversations, 
and now could not be mentioned. 

Elma thought of the visits that Miss Grace would 
have to make to her. She saw that Miss Grace had 
been warned not to agitate her. This was enough to 
enable her to take the matter entirely in her own hands 
with no agitation at all. 

“I think you know. Miss Grace, that when one has 
been so near dying as I’ve been, and not minded — I 
mean I had no knowledge that I was so ill, and even 
didn’t care much — since it was myself, you know, 
except for the trouble it gave to people ” 

Elma was becoming a little long-winded. 

“I want to tell you that you must always tell me 
about Miss Annie, not mind just because they say I’m 
not to be agitated, or anything of that sort. I won’t 
be a bit agitated if you tell me about Miss Annie.” 

“My dear love,” Miss Grace stopped abruptly. “Dr. 
Merryweather said ” and she stopped again. 

“Yes, Dr. Merryweather said the same to me, he said 
that on no account was I to speak to you of Miss Annie. 
Dr. Merryweather simply knows nothing about you and 
me.” 

Miss Grace shook her head drearily. 


The Ham Sandwich 


261 


“You are a bad little invalid,” said she. 

But it broke the ice a little bit, and one day after- 
wards Miss Grace told her more than she could bear 
herself. Dr. Merryweather was right. Miss Grace broke 
down over the last loving message to Elma. She had a 
little pearl necklace for Elma to wear, and fastened it on 
without a word. 

Then came Mrs. Leighton looking anxious. 

“See, mummy. Miss Grace has given me a beautiful 
little necklace from Miss Annie.” 

All trace of Elma’s childish nervousness had departed 
with her fever. She had looked right into other worlds, 
and it had made an easier thing of this one. Besides, 
Miss Grace must not be allowed to cry. 

Miss Grace did not cry so much as one might have 
expected. Miss Annie’s death was a thing she had 
feared for twenty-eight years, and Dr. Merryweather 
had given her no sympathy. He had almost made 
her think that Annie ought not to consider herself an 
invalid. How she connected typhoid fever with the 
neurotic illness which Dr. Merryweather would never 
acknowledge as an illness, it was difl&cult to imagine. 
Certainly, she had the feeling that Annie in a pathetic 
manner had justified her invalidism at last. It was a 
sad way in which to recover one’s self-respect, but in an 
unexplained way she felt that with Dr. Merryweather 
she had recovered her self-respect. She could refer to 
Miss Annie now, and awaken that twitching of his 
sympathies which one could see plainly in that rugged, 
often inscrutable face, and feel thereby that she had 
not misplaced her confidence by giving up all these 
years to Annie. Indeed, the death of Miss Annie 


262 


The Story Book Girls 

affected Dr. Merryweather far more than one could 
imagine. As also the sight of Elma, thinned down 
and fragile, her hair gone and a wig on. 

He teased her unmercifully about the wig. 

“So long as I look respectable when Mabel and Jean 
come home! Oh! Dr. Merryweather, please have me 
looking respectable when Mabel and Jean come home.” 

Dr. Merryweather promised to have her as fat as a 
pumpkin. 


CHAPTER XXV 


The Wild Anemone 

Mabel and Jean had been successfully deceived up to 
a certain point in regard to Elma’s illness. They were 
told the facts when the danger was past. It was made 
clear to them then that the fewer people at home in 
an illness of that sort the better, while skilled nurses 
were so conveniently to be had. Mabel pined a little 
over not having been there to nurse Elma, as though she 
had landed her sensitive little sister into an illness 
by leaving too much on her shoulders. The inde- 
pendent vitality of Jean constantly reassured her, 
however. 

“She would just have been worse with that scared face 
of yours at her bedside,’^ Jean would declare. “Every 
time you think of Elma you get as white as though 
you were just about to perform in the Queen’s 
Hall. You’ll have angina pectoris if you don’t look 
out.” 

Jean had made a great friend of a nurse who never 
talked of common things like heart disease or tooth- 
ache. “Angina pectoris” and “periostitis” were 
used instead. When Jean wrote home in an airy man- 
ner in the midst of Elma’s illness to say that she was 
263 


264 The Story Book Girls 

suffering from an attack of “periostitis,” Mrs. Leigh- 
ton immediately wired, “Get a nurse for Jean if 
required.” 

“What in the wide world have you been telling 
mother?” asked Mabel with that alarming communica- 
tion in her hand. 

Jean was trying to learn fencing from an enthusiast in the 
corridor. 

“Oh, well.” Her face fell a trifle at the consideration 
of the telegram. “I did have toothache,” said Jean. 

Mabel stared at the telegram. “Mummy can’t be 
losing her reason over Lima’s being ill,” she said. “She 
couldn’t possibly suppose you would want a nurse for 
toothache. That’s going a little too far, isn’t it?” 

Mabel was really quite anxious about her mother. 

“Oh, well,” said Jean lamely, “Nurse Shaw said it was 
periostitis.” 

“And you — ” — Mabel’s eyes grew round and 
indignant — “you really wrote and told poor mummy 
that you had perios — os ” 

“This,” said Jean. “Of course I did — why not?” 

She was a trifle ashamed of herself, but the dancing 
eyes of the fencing enthusiast held her to the point. 

“That’s the worst of early Victorian parents,” said 
this girl with a bright cheerful giggle. “One can’t even 
talk the vernacular nowadays.” 

She made an unexpected lunge at Jean. 

“Oh,” cried Jean, “I must answer that telegram. Say 
I’m an idiot, Mabel, and that I’ve only had tooth- 
ache.” 

Mabel for once performed the duties of an elder sister 
in a grim manner. 


The Wild Anemone 265 

“Am an idiot,” she wrote, “only had toothache an 
hour. Fencing match on, forgive hurry. Jean.” 

She read it out to the fencers. 

“Oh, I say,” said Jean with visible chagrin, “you are 
a little beggar, Mabel.” 

“Send it,” cried the fencing girl. “One must be 
laughed at now and again — it’s good for one. Besides, 
you can’t be both a semi-neurotic invalid and a good fencer. 
Better give up the neurotic habit.” 

Jean stepped back in derision. 

“I’m not neurotic,” she affirmed. 

“You wouldn’t have sent that message about your 
perio — pierrot — what’s the gentleman’s name ? — if you 
hadn’t been neurotic.” 

Mabel had scribbled off another message. 

“Well,” said Jean gratefully, “my own family don’t 
talk to me like that.” 

“Oh, no,” said the fencing girl coolly, “they run 
round you with hot bottles and mustard blisters. All 
families do. They make you think about your tooth- 
ache until you aren’t pleased when you haven’t got it. 
That’s the benefit of being here. Here it’s a bore to be 
ill.” 

She went suddenly on guard. 

“Oh,” said Jean, in willing imitation of that attitude, 
“if you only teach me to fence, you may say what you 
like.” 

It was more the importance of Jean’s estimate of her- 
self than any real leanings towards being an invalid 
which made her look on an hour’s depression as a 
serious thing, and an attack of toothache as an item 
of news which ought immediately to be communicated 


266 The Story Book Girls 

to her family. She criticised life entirely through 
her own feelings and experiences. Mabel and Elma 
had enough of the sympathetic understanding of the 
nature of others to tune their own characters accord- 
ingly. But Jean, unless terrified, or hurt, or joyous 
herself never allowed these feelings to be transmitted 
from any one, or because of any one, she happened 
to love. It kept her from maturing as Mabel and even 
Elma had done. She would always be more or less 
of the self-centred person. It was a useful trait in 
connection with singing, for instance, and it seemed 
also as though it might make her a good fencer. But 
the flippant merry fencing enthusiast in front of her 
was right when she saw the pitfall ready for the Jean who 
should one day dedicate herself to her ailments. 

In the case of Mabel this very lack of sympathy in 
Jean helped her in a lonely manner to regain some of 
her lost confidence in herself. It never dawned once 
on Jean that Mabel was fighting down a trouble of 
her own. Mabel had bad nights and ghostly dreams, 
and a headache occasionally, which seemed as though 
it would put an end to any enthusiasm she might ever 
have had for such an occupation as piano playing. But 
in the morning one got up, and there were always the 
interests, the joys or troubles, or the quaint little oddi- 
ties of other girls, to knock this introspection and worry 
into the background, and make Mabel her companion- 
able self once more. It was better after all than the 
scrutiny of one’s own family, even a kind one. Jean 
was merely conscious of change in any one when they 
refused a match or a drive or a walk with her. The 
world was of a piece when that happened — “stodgy” — 


The Wild Anemone 267 

and the interests of Jean were being neglected — a great 
crime. 

Mabel despatched the telegram, and the fencing 
was resumed with vigour. The corridor at this end 
of the house contained a bay window, seated and 
cushioned, and more comfortable as a tea-room than 
many of the little bedrooms. They had arranged tea- 
cups, and were preparing that fascinating and de- 
lightful meal when a girl advanced from the far end 
of the corridor, in a lithe swinging manner. The fenc- 
ing girl drew back her foil abruptly. ‘‘Who is that?” 
she asked, staring. The girls were conscious of a most 
refreshing and invigorating surprise. Elsie Clutter- 
buck stood there, with the wild sweetness of the open 
air in her bearing, her hair ruflSed gently, her eyes shin- 
ing in a pale setting. 

“You beautiful wild anemone!” breathed the fenc- 
ing girl in a whisper. 

Mabel and Jean heard the soft words with surprise. 
It was a new light through which to look on Elsie. 
They had never quite dropped the pose of the benig- 
nant girls who had taken Elsie “out of herself.” To 
them she was rather a protege than a friend; much 
as Mabel at least would have despised herself for that 
attitude had she detected it in herself. She acknow- 
ledged an immediate drop in her calculations, when 
the fencing girl did not ask as most people did, “Who 
is that queer little thing?” It was difficult in one 
sudden moment to adjust oneself to introducing Elsie 
as “You beautiful wild anemone!” 

Jean, however, merely summed up the fencing 
girl as rather ignorant. “Why,” she said frankly, 


268 


The Story Book Girls 

“I declare it’s Elsie!” and in a whisper declared, 
‘‘There’s nothing beautiful about Elsie.” 

They welcomed her heartily, curiously, and wondered 
if Lance’s latest news of the family was true. 

“Mother Buttercluck,” he had written, “has come in 
for a little legacy. It’s she who clucks now (grammar 
or no grammar) and the Professor chimes in as the 
butter portion merely. May heard about it. Can 
you imagine Mrs. C. saying, ‘I’d love to have some one 
to lean on,’ and the Buttercluck, who would have 
declared before — ‘ On whom to lean. Pray do be more 
careful of your English,’ not having a cluck left? Though 
I do think Elsie had knocked a little of the cluck 
out before the legacy arrived.” 

Elsie did not seem to be bursting with news. She 
sat in rather a grown-up, reliable way, opening her 
furry coat at their orders, and drawing off her gloves. 
Her hair was up in loose, heavy coils on her neck, and 
it parted in front with that restless rippling appearance 
which made one think of the open air. The tip-tilted 
nose, which had seemed the principal fault in the face 
which had always been termed plain in childhood, 
seemed now to lend a piquancy to her features. These 
were delicately irregular, and her eyebrows were too 
high, if one might rely on the analysis of Jean. 

The fencing girl sat and stared at her with her foil 
balanced on a crossed knee. If one wanted to do the 
fencing girl a real kindness, to make her radiantly happy, 
then one introduced her to some one in whom she might 
be interested. Life was a garden to her, and the friends 
she made the flowers. She was not particular about 
plucking them either. “Oh, no indeed,” she would 


The Wild Anemone 


269 

say, “I’ve seen some one in the park to-day who is 
more sweet and lovely than any one human ought to 
be. I should love to know her, of course, but she was 
just as great a joy to look at. Why should you want 
to have everything that’s beautiful? It’s merely a 
form of selfishness.” 

Mabel and Jean imagined that it was more a pose 
on the part of the fencing girl than any talent of Elsie’s 
which immediately impressed her on this afternoon. 
They were later to discover that a thrill of expectancy, 
of interest, was Elsie’s first gift to strangers. 

“Oh, no,” breathed the fencing girl to herself, “you 
are not beautiful, really; you are a personality — that’s 
it.” 

Elsie sat pulling her gloves through her white hands. 

“Lance says Mrs. Clutterbuck has a legacy,” said 
Jean bluntly. “I suppose it’s true, but we are never 
sure of Lance, you know.” 

She passed a cup and some buttered toast. 

“Oh, yes, it’s true,” said Elsie. “I do so envy 
mamma.” 

“Why? Doesn’t she — haven’t you the benefit of it 
too?” asked Mabel in surprise. 

“Oh, yes. It isn’t that, you know.” Elsie swept 
forward, with a little furry cape falling up to her ears 
as she recovered a dropped glove. “It’s giving papa 
a holiday. I’ve thought all my life how I should love 
to grow up and become an heiress, and give my papa a 
holiday.” 

“You thought that?” asked Jean accusingly. “Come 
now — when you were climbing lamp-posts and skimming 
down rain -pipes ” 


270 The Story Book Girls 

“Yes, and breaking into other people’s houses,” said 
Elsie slowly. 

“Did you do that too?” asked Jean. 

“Once,” said Elsie dreamily, “only once. I was a 
dreadful trial to my parents,” she explained to the 
fencing girl. 

“You weren’t spanked enough,” said Mabel, shaking 
her head at her. 

“My papa was too busy, and mamma too con- 
cerned about him to attend to me,” smiled Elsie. “Poor 
mamma ! She knew if I told my father what I did, 
it would disturb his thoughts, and if his thoughts 
were disturbed he couldn’t work, and if he couldn’t 
work the rent wouldn’t be paid.” 

“Oh,” said Mabel with memories heaping on her, 
“had you really to worry about the rent?” 

The fencing girl began to talk at last. 

“It makes me tired,” said she vigorously, “the way 
in which you people, brought up in provincial and 
suburban places, talk. Because you can’t afford to 
be there unless your fathers have enough money to 
take you there, you think there’s no struggle in the world. 
You ought to live a bit in towns where people are 
obliged to show the working side as well as the re- 
tired and affluent side. You poor thing, stuck in sub- 
urbia, among those Philistines, and thinking about the 
rent ! I suppose they only thought you were bad 
tempered.” 

The fencing girl had landed them into a conversa- 
tion more intimate than any they had attempted to- 
gether. 

“Oh,” said Elsie, and she looked shyly at Mabel 


The Wild Anemone 


271 


and Jean. “I was a tiny little thing when I got my first 
lesson. A lady and her daughter called on mamma 
the second week we were in Ridgetown. I came on 
them in the garden afterwards. They were going out 
at the gate, and they didn’t see me coming in. This 
lady said to her daughter, quite amiably: ‘It’s no 
use, my dear ; I suppose you observed they have only one 
maid.’ They never called again.” 

The fencing girl bit her lip with an interrupted laugh. 

“Isn’t that suburbia?” she asked. “Now, isn’t 
it?” 

“It made me a little wild cat,” said Elsie. “Every- 
body in Ridgetown had at least two maids, except 
ourselves.” 

“Do you know,” said Jean, “I know the time when 
we would have wept at that if it had ever happened to us. 
It isn’t a joke,” she told the fencing girl. 

Elsie gave a long, quiet laugh. “If I ever have 
children,” she said, “I hope I may keep them from being 
silly about a trifle of that sort.” 

“That’s one of the jokes of life though. You won’t 
have children who need any support in that way.” 

“Won’t I?” asked Elsie with round eyes. 

“No, they’ll all be quite different. They’ll be giv- 
ing you points on the simple life, and advising you 
to dispense with maids altogether,” said the fencing 
girl. “I’m not joking. It’s a fact, you know, that 
children are awfully unlike their parents. Are you 
like your mother?” she asked Elsie. 

“Not a bit,” said Elsie laughing. 

“ Don’t study yourself merely in order to know 
about children. You may just have been a selfish little 


2/2 


The Story Book Girls 

prig, you know,” said the fencing girl cheerily. “Study 
them by the dozen, be public-spirited about it. Then 
some day you may be able to understand the soul of a 
child when you get it all to yourself. You won’t just 
sit and say in a blank way, Tn my day children 
were different.’” 

“Oh,” cried Jean. “Now don’t. If there’s any- 
thing I hate, it’s when Evelyn begins to preach about 
children.” 

“Oh, well,” said the fencing girl with a shrug, “if 

Mrs. , whatever your mother’s name is, had known 

as much about their little ways as I do, she would never 
have let you worry about that one maid. We are all wrong 
with domestic life at present. The one lot stays in 
too much and loses touch with the world, and the other 
lot are too busy touching the world to stay in 
enough. We are putting it right, however,” she said 

amiably. “We are ” She spread her hands in 

the direction of the company collected. “We are get- 
ting up our world at present. After that we may be of 
some use in it.” 

Elsie looked at her rather admiringly. 

“My father would love to hear you talk,” she said ami- 
ably. 

“Talk,” said the fencing girl in a fallen voice, “and I 
hate the talkers so!” 

“Nevertheless,” said Mabel, “given a friend of ours in 
for tea — who does the talking?” 

“Evelyn,” said Jean, “and invariably her own subjects 
too.” 

It seems that this girl was not always fencing. 

She controlled the collecting of rents and practically 


The Wild Anemone 


273 


managed the domestic matters in three streets of tene- 
ments of new buildings recently erected in a working part 
of London. She was also engaged to be married. 

“Doesn’t this sort of independent life unsettle you for 
a quiet one?” she was often asked by her friends. 

“And it’s quite different,” she would explain. “Know- 
ing the stress and the difl&culties of this side of it make 
me long for that little haven of a home we are getting 
ready at Richmond. I would bury myself there for ever, 
from a selfish point of view that is, and probably vege- 
tate like the others. But I’ve made a pledge never 
to forget — never to forget what I’ve seen in London, 
and never to stop working for it somewhere or some- 
how.” 

“What about your poor husband?” asked Jean. 

“He isn’t poor,” said the fencing girl with a grin. 
“He is getting quite rich. He fell in love with me at 
the tenements. He built them. I should think he 
would divorce me if I turned narrow-minded.” 

She gazed in a searching way at Elsie. 

“You have the makings of a somebody,” she said 
gravely, “more than these two, though they are perfectly 
charming.” 

“I want to go to the Balkans,” said Elsie. She turned 
to Mabel. “Cousin Arthur declared he really would 
take me.” 

“Is Mr. Symington there now?” asked Jean. Mabel 
thanked her from the bottom of a heart that couldn’t 
prompt a single word at that supreme moment. 

“No, but he said he was going some day,” said Elsie. 
That was all. Mabel had seen a blaze of sunshine and 
then blackness again. 

T 


274 


The Story Book Girls 

“Oh,’^ said the robust, unheeding Jean, “what do your 
people say to that?” 

“Papa says he won’t have me butchered,” said Elsie 
with a radiant smile. 

“Look here,” said the fencing girl, with her eyes 
still searching that “wild flower of a face ” of Elsie’s. “Will 
your father come and see my tenements ? ” 

The answer of Elsie became historical in the girls’ 
club. 

“I think he will,” said she. “He was up the Ferris 
wheel last night.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


Under Royal Patronage 

Mrs. Leighton made use of the fact of the Clutter- 
bucks’ being in London to write to the Professor’s 
wife. 

^‘We have been so anxious about Elma, who now 
however is picking up. But we have the saddest 
news of Miss Annie. It seems as though she would 
not live more than a day or two. If I have bad news 
to send to Mabel and Jean, may I send it through 
you? It would be such a kindness to me if I knew 
you were there to tell them.” 

Mrs. Clutterbuck responded in that loving tremulous 
way she had of delighting in being useful. She could 
not believe in her good fortune with the Professor. 
After all, it had been worry, concern about material 
things, which had clouded his affection for a time. 
He had never been able to give himself to the world, 
as he desired to give himself, because of that grind 
at lectures which he so palpably abhorred. Now 
even the lectures were a delight, since he had leisure 
besides when he did not need to reflect on the cer- 
tainty of “the rainy day.” He was once more the 
hero of her girlish dreams. How magnificent not 
to lose one’s ideal! They both rejoiced in the young 

275 


276 The Story Book Girls 

ardour of Elsie, whose courage made leaps at each 
new unfolding of the “loveliness of life.’^ 

It was very delightful now that the two Leightons 
should come under those gently stretching wings of the 
reinvigorated Professor’s wife. 

At the time of a call from Mrs. Clutterbuck, Mabel 
and Jean had just received tickets from Lady Emily 
for a concert at a great house. The concert, to those 
who bought guinea tickets, was not so important as 
the fact that royal ears would listen to it. Herr 
Slavska disposed of the affair in a speech which could 
not be taken down in words. His theme was the 
rush of the “stupids” to see a royal personage, and 
the tragedy of the poor “stars” of artists who could 
hardly afford the cab which protected their costumes. 
Yet some members of his profession, he averred, would 
rather lose a meal or two than lose the chance of seeing 
their name in red letters and of bowing to encores 
from royalty. 

“And why not?” asked Jean. “I think it would be 
lovely to bow to royalty.” 

“Where is ze art?” he asked as a wind-up. “No- 
where ! ” 

“That’s nonsense, you know,” Jean confided after- 
wards. “I think there must be a lot of art in being 
able to sing to kings and queens. Besides, why 
shouldn’t they wave their royal hands, and produce^ 
us, as it were — like Aladdin, you know.” 

Jean already saw herself at Windsor. 

Mabel merely concerned herself with the fact that 
Mr. Green was to play. He had not the scruples 
of Herr Slavska. “Although it’s an abominable prac- 


Under Royal Patronage 277 

tice,” said he. “It is the artists who make the sacrifice. 
Everybody else gets something for it. The crowd 
gets royalty, royalty gets music, charities get gold. 
We get momentary applause — that is all.” 

“That’s what I’m living for,” declared Jean, “just 
a little, a very little momentary applause. Then I 
would swell like a peacock, Mabel, I really should. 
The artists don’t get nothing out of it after all. They 
get appreciation.” 

Mrs. Clutterbuck was intensely interested in the 
concert. “Do you mean to say there’s to be a prince at 
it?” she asked. 

There were to be princesses also, it seemed. 

“Oh,” said Mabel, “how lovely it would have 
been for Elsie and you to go.” 

She saw the experience that it would be for a little 
home bird of the Mrs. Clutterbuck type. She con- 
sidered for a moment — “Couldn’t she give up her 
ticket for one of them ! ” 

Mrs. Clutterbuck saw the indecision in her face. 

“No, my dear, no,” said she, “I know the thought in 
your mind. I have a much better plan.” 

The pleasure of being at last able to dispense favours 
transformed her face. She turned with an expectant, 
delighted look to Elsie. 

“If we could go together,” said she, “and it wouldn’t 
be a bore to both of you to sit with two country cousins 
like ourselves, I should take two tickets. It would 
be charming.” 

This plan was received with the greatest acclamation. 
“We ought to have a chaperon anyhow,” said Jean. It 
seemed the funniest thing in the world to Mabel 


278 The Story Book Girls 

that they should be about to be chaperoned by Mrs. 
Clutterbuck. In some unaccountable way it drew 
her more out of her loneliness than anything she had 
experienced in London. On the other hand she was 
constantly reminding herself how much amused some 
people in Ridgetown would be if they only knew. 

They drove to the concert on a spring day when the 
air had suddenly turned warm. The streets were 
sparkling with a radiance of budding leaves, of strug- 
gling blossom; and all the world seemed to be turn- 
ing in at the great gates of the house beyond St. 
James’. 

It was not to be expected that one should know 
these people, though, as Jean declared, “Every little 
boarding-house keeper in Bayswater could tell you 
who was stepping out of the carriage in front of you.” 

There was a great crowd inside; heated rooms and 
a wide vestibule, and a hall where a platform was 
arranged with crimson seats facing it and denoting 
royalty. 

Mrs. Clutterbuck’s timidity came on her with a 
rush. She could hardly produce her two tickets. It 
was Mabel who saved the situation and piloted them in 
as though she understood exactly where to go. There 
was a hush of expectancy in the beautifully costumed 
crowd within. Everybody looked past one with craning 
neck. Mabel began to laugh. “It’s exactly as though 
they were built on a slant,” she declared. 

In the end they found seats on the stairs beside the wife 
of an ambassador. 

“My dear,” said Mrs. Clutterbuck in rather a breath- 
less way to Mabel. “My dear, just think of it.” 


Under Royal Patronage 279 

Mabel immediately regretted having brought her 
there. 

“But everybody is sitting on the stairs/’ she said 
gravely. “It’s quite all right. Lady Emily told me 
she once took a seat in an elevator in somebody’s house 
because there was no room elsewhere. She spent an 
hour going up and down, not having the courage to get 
out.” 

Mrs. Clutterbuck smiled nervously. 

“It isn’t that, my dear. It’s the gown, that one 
in front of you. Every inch of the lace is hand-made.” 

Mrs. Clutterbuck was quite enervated by the dis- 
covery. 

“Oh,” said Mabel in quite a relieved way, “was 
that it? I began to blame myself for bringing you 
to the stairs.” 

“Isn’t it fun?” said Elsie. “Much funnier looking 
at these people than it will be looking at royalty. I 
never saw so many lorgnettes.” 

A sudden movement made them rise. A group of 
princesses with bouquets appeared and took their seats 
on the red chairs. 

“Oh,” said Jean with a sigh, as they sat down again. 
“Think of the poor artists now.” 

She had grown quite pale. 

“I don’t think I shall ever be able to perform,” 
she said. “My heart simply stops beating on an occa- 
sion of this sort.” 

The crowd parted again, and a singer, radiant in 
white chiffon with silver embroidery, and wearing a 
black hat with enormous plumes, ascended the platform. 
She curtseyed elaborately to the princesses, and casually 


200 


The Story Book Girls 

bowed in the direction of the applause which reached her 
from other sources. She began to sing, and in that hall of 
reserved voices, of deferential attitudes, of eager, search- 
ing glances and general ceremonious curiosity, her voice 
rang out a clear, beautiful, alien thing. It danced into 
the shadows of minds merely occupied with staring, 
it filled up crevices as though she had appeared in an 
empty room. One moment every one had been girt 
with a kind of fashionable melancholy which precluded 
anything but polite commonplaces. The next minute 
something living had appeared, a liquid voice sang notes 
of joy, mockery, and despair; it lit on things which 
cannot be touched upon with the speaking voice, and 
it brought tears to the eyes of one little princess. 

Jean was shrouded in longing. Nothing so inti- 
mately delicious had ever come near her. She might as 
well shut up her music books and say good-bye to Herr 
Slavska. Elsie sat beside the lady in real lace. She 
was in the woods with the fresh air blowing over her; 
buttercups and daisies at her feet. 

“Is she not then charming?” asked a voice at her 
side. The real lace had spoken at last. That was how 
they discovered afterwards that she was the wife of an 
ambassador. The lady had her mind distracted first 
by the sheer beauty of a famous voice which she loved, 
next by the delicate profile of the face beside her — a 
type not usual in London. 

Elsie turned her eyes with a start. 

“It’s like summer, the voice,” she said simply. 

“It’s like the best method I’ve ever heard,” said 
Jean darkly. (Oh, how to emulate such a creature !) 

“Ah, yes. But she returns. And now, while yet 


Under Royal Patronage 281 

she bows and does not sing — a leetle vulgar, is it 
not?’’ 

The ambassador’s wife could discount her favourite 
it seemed. That was just the difficulty in art. To 
remain supreme in one art and yet recognize other forms 
of it, that was the fortune of few. The singer had 
enormous jewels at her neck. 

“She would wear cabbage as diamonds,” said the 
lady, “but with her voice one forgives.” 

Thereafter there was a procession of the most talented 
performers at that moment in London. Magicians 
with violins drew melodies in a faultless manner from 
smooth strings and a bow which seemed to be playing 
on butter. Technique was evident nowhere, only the 
easy lovely result of it. In an hour it became as facile 
a thing to play any instrument, sing any song, as though 
practice and discouragement did not exist in any art at 
all. 

“Mr. Green played decorously and magnificently,” 
said Elsie. “They are all a little decorous, aren’t 
they?” she asked, “except that wonderful thing in 
the white and silver gown.” 

Nothing had touched the daring beauty of that 
voice. 

Mrs. Clutterbuck leant forward to Elsie eagerly. 

“I was right, Elsie,” said she. “You know I was 
right.” 

“Right?” asked Elsie. Her eyes shone with a 
dark glamour. “You mean about it’s being so nice 
here, romantic and that sort of thing?” 

“No,” said Mrs. Clutterbuck. She sometimes had 
rather a superb way of treating Elsie’s little imaginative 


282 


The Story Book Girls 

extravagances. “I mean about mauve — mauve is the 
colour this year, don’t you see?” 

Mamma,” she said radiantly, “I quite forgot. I 
was simply wondering how long all this would last, 
or whether they’d suddenly cut us off the way Jean says 
they do.” 

“They do,” said Jean, “at these charity concerts. 
One after another runs on and makes its little bow. 
And some are detained, you know, and can’t go, and 
then the programme just comes to an end.” 

“They seem to be going on all right,” said Mrs. 
Clutterbuck placidly, “and mauve is the colour, you see.” 
Another singer appeared, and Jean’s heaven was 
cleared of clouds by the evidence in this performer of 
a bad method. Now, indeed, it seemed an easy matter 
to believe that one could triumph over anything. 

That first, victorious, delicious voice had trodden on 
every ambition Jean ever possessed. But the frailty of a 
newcomer set her once more on her enthusiastic feet. 

“I should say it would be easy enough to get appear- 
ing at a concert like this,” she said dimly to Elsie. Her 
eye was on the future, and the platform was cleared. 
At the piano sat Mr. Green, grown older a little, and 
more companionable as an accompanist; and in the 
centre, in radiant silver and white, and — and diamonds, 
sang Jean, the prima donna, Jean ! 

She was startled by the sudden departure of the 
ambassador’s wife. 

“For the leaving of the princess I wait not,” said this 
lady. With a cool little nod to Elsie, she descended the 
crowded stairs. 

Her remarks on the vulgarity of the singer rankled 


Under Royal Patronage 283 

with Jean. The costume seemed so appropriate to 
that other fair dream. 

‘T didn’t think her vulgar, did you?” she asked 
Elsie. 

“Not on a platform, perhaps,” said Elsie vaguely. 
Her thoughts invariably strayed from dress. “But in 
a drawing-room she would look, look ” 

“Well, what, Elsie?” asked Jean impatiently. 

Elsie’s dreamy eyes came down on her suddenly. “In 
a drawing-room she would look like a lamp shade,” 
she blurted. 

It really was rather a tragedy for them that the 
golden voice should have been framed in so doubtful a 
setting. 

Elsie’s eyes were on the princesses. 

“They have eyes like calm lakes,” said she. “How 
clever it must be to look out and feel and know, only 
to express very often something entirely different. Don’t 
you wonder what princesses say to themselves when 
they get alone together after an affair of this sort?” 

“I know,” said Mabel. “They say, T wonder 
what girls like these girls on the stairs say of us after 
we are gone; do they say we are charming, as the 

newspapers do, or do they say ’ But they couldn’t 

think that, for they are charming, aren’t they?” asked 
Mabel. 

“Yes,” said Elsie sadly. “But I never could keep 
a bird in a cage. It must be like being in a cage some- 
times for them.” 

There was an abrupt movement among the royal 
party. The last of the illustrious performers had 
appeared, and it was time to go. Everybody rose 


284 The Story Book Girls 

once more. Then there was a hurried fight for a tea- 
room where countesses played hostess. 

Mrs. Clutterbuck, now finally in the spirit of the thing, 
moved along blithely. She spoke, however, in low 
modulated whispers as though she were attending some 
serious ceremony. 

“I’m sure your mother would have enjoyed this,” 
she said as they sat down to ices served in filagree boats. 
“The countesses and, you know, the general air of the 
thing — so different to Ridgetown.” 

“Ridgetownl” The girls laughed immoderately. 

“We couldn’t sit on the stairs at Ridgetown, could we?” 

Mrs. Clutterbuck was getting away from her subject. 
“Take some tea, my dear,” she said to Mabel in the tone 
of voice of one who should say, “you will need it.” 
“It’s invigorating after the ice,” said the Professor’s 
wife. 

Mabel took tea. 

Now that the great event of the concert was over, 
they were a little tired, and glad of the idea of fresh air. 

“Miss Grace, dear — have you heard from Miss Grace 
lately?” asked Mrs. Clutterbuck. 

“No. It’s a funny thing,” said Mabel. “We sup- 
posed it was because of Elma’s illness, you know. Miss 
Grace would be in such a state. Shall we go now?” 

They got out and arranged to walk through St. 
James’ Park together. 

“I had a message,” said Mrs. Clutterbuck quietly, 
“about Miss Grace. I am to have another when I 
get back just now. Will you come with me? It’s 
about Miss Annie. She has been very ill.” 

It was impossible for her to tell them that the same 


Under Royal Patronage 285 

illness as Elma’s had done its work there. They seemed 
to have no suspicion of that. 

“Oh, poor Miss Annie!’’ said Mabel. “If I had 
only known!” 

“That was just it; they couldn’t tell you that too 
with all you had to hear about Elma. Elma is very 
well now, you understand, but Miss Annie — well, Miss 
Annie is not expected to live over to-night.” 

The news came to them in an unreal way. It was 
the break-up of their childhood. That Miss Annie 
should not always be there, the charming beautiful 
invalid, seemed impossible. 

“Oh, but,” said Mabel, “she has been so ill before, 
won’t she get better?” 

“She was never ill like this before,” said Mrs. Clutter- 
buck. “We will see what the message says.” 

They found a wire at home. At the end of a spar- 
kling day, it came to that. While they had listened to 
these golden voices. Miss Annie had ” 

The telegram lay there to say that Miss Annie had 
died. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


The Home-Coming 

Mr. Leighton departed from his first feelings of hurry 
where Mabel and Jean were concerned, and delayed 
their home-coming till Elma was in a condition not to 
be retarded by any extra excitement. 

They drove away at last from the club early in the 
morning, so that they had the entire house to see them 
off. It was very nearly as bad as leaving Ridgetown. 

shall not be able to walk past your door for some 
days,” said one red-haired girl. “Oh, don’t I know that 
feeling ? ” 

She was compelled to stay in London, with only a 
fortnight’s holiday in summer time. 

“I shall send you forget-me-nots by every post,” 
said Jean. “You’ll be in love with the new girl in a 
week.” 

“I won’t,” said the red-haired girl. 

They had gifts from all of the girls stowed away some- 
where. What a morning! Even the hall porter showed 
signs of dejection at their going. 

“It will never be the same without you, miss,” he said 
to Mabel. 

One’s own family were not so complimentary. 

286 


The Home Coming 287 

Mabel and Jean left in a heaped-up four-wheeler. 

“I feel quite sick, you know,” said Jean. 

It was a historic statement, and Mabel had her own 
qualms. They left a houseful of good little friendly 
people, a dazzling, hard-working London, and they 
were going back — to the wedding of Isobel. Mabel had 
not got over the feeling that drama only exists in a 
brilliant manner in London, and that life in one’s own 
home, though peaceful, was drab colour. It wouldn’t 
be drab colour, it would be radiant of course, if happy 
unexpected things happened there. How it would 
lighten to the colour of rose, oh gorgeous life, if such a 
thing could ever happen now ! But it wouldn’t. All 
that would happen would be that Robin would marry 
Isobel and that she should keep on playing piano. Ah, 
well, in any case, she could play piano a long way better 
than she ever did. And Jean could sing with a certain 
distinction of method. Not nearly ripe, this method, 
as Jean informed every one, but on the way. Her 
voice would be worth hearing at twenty-five. 

Much of the effect they would make on Ridgetown 
was invested in the boxes piled above them. All their 
spare time lately had been taken up in spending their 
allowance in clothes and panning things neatly out to 
London standards. It gave them an amount of reliance 
in themselves and in their return which was very exhilar- 
ating. Though what did it all matter with Miss Annie 
gone? 

‘Tt terrifies me to think of Ridgetown without Miss 
Annie. What shall we do there?” asked Jean mourn- 
fully. 

‘^Yes, that’s it,” replied Mabel. “No one dying in 


288 


The Story Book Girls 

London would make that difference. I shall think, as we 
are driving home, Miss Annie isn’t there. Won’t you?” 

“And here they would only have a little more time 
for somebody else,” said Jean. 

They drove through the early morning streets with 
a tiny relief at their heart. On their next drive they 
would know everybody they passed. 

“Oh, how deadly I felt when I came here!” said 
Jean. “Knowing no one, and thinking that if I died 
in the cab no one near me would care!” 

They reached Ridgetown in the afternoon. A carriage 
was drawn up at the station gates. In it were Mrs. 
Leighton, Miss Grace, and Lima. 

Mabel stood transfixed. 

“Oh, Lima,” she said, “Lima!” 

Lima knew it. She wasn’t as fat as a pumpkin 
after all. And every one had kept on saying that she 
was fatter than any pumpkin. Mabel was the only one 
who had told the truth. She leaned over the folded 
hood of the carriage and hugged her gently. 

“I should like to inform you, Mabs, I’m as fat as a 
pumpkin.” 

But Mabel hung on to the carriage with her head 
down. No one had told her that Lima had been so 
ill as this. 

Lima had the look of having been in a far country 
— why hadn’t some one told her? Miss Grace, who 
had been away for some weeks with Adelaide Maud and 
had just got back in fairly good spirits, did some of the 
conversing which helped Mabel to recover herself. 

Cuthbert and Betty came hurrying up from the 
wrong end of the train. 


The Home-Coming 289 

. “Oh, and we missed you,” wailed Betty, “and I 
wanted to be the first.” 

One could hug indiscriminately at Ridgetown Station. 
Jean was the next person to melt into tears. She had 
tried to tell Miss Grace how sorry she was. 

Cuthbert began to restore order. 

“You’d better take two in that carriage, crowded 
or not,” said he. “There are boxes lying on the plat- 
form which will require a cab to themselves.” 

“It’s our music,” said Jean importantly and quite 
untruthfully. 

“It’s my new hat,” said Mabel, with a return of her 
old dash. 

She had gone round the carriage seeing each occu- 
pant separately, and there seemed to be no hurry for 
anything, merely the pleasure of meeting again. 

Just then there was a whirl of wheels in the distance. 
A certain familiarity in the sound made four girls look 
at each other. Mrs. Leighton, who had no ear for wheels, 
stared in a surprised way at her daughters. 

“Well,” she said, “what are we all waiting for? 
We must get home sometime.” 

“Yes,” asked Cuthbert lustily, “what in the wide 
world are we waiting for?” 

A high wagonette and pair of horses drove up, and 
turned with a fine circle into line behind them. In 
the wagonette sat Adelaide Maud. Adelaide Maud was 
dressed in blue. 

“That,” said Lima, with a sigh of great content- 
ment. 

The three girls dashed at Adelaide Maud. 

Elma laid her hand on Cuthbert’s. 
u 


290 The Story Book Girls 

^‘Go and say how do you do to Adelaide Maud,” 
said she. 

For a minute or two she was left with Mrs. Leighton 
and Miss Grace. Then Cuthbert came to her. 

“Get up,” said he to Elma. “Get up. You’re to 
go with Adelaide Maud.” 

“Who is this Adelaide Maud who interferes with 
every plan in connection with my family?” asked Mrs. 
Leighton. She had a resigned note in her voice. “Shall 
we ever get home?” she kept asking. 

A voice behind them broke in. 

“I didn’t tell him to be impolite, Mrs. Leighton,” 
said Adelaide Maud. “I only asked to have Elma in 
my carriage.” 

Elma looked provokingly at Adelaide Maud. 

“I’m so sorry,” said she, “but I’m driving home with 
Cuthbert.” 

“It’s not true,” said Cuthbert. “She’s doing nothing 
of the kind.” 

“Then I shall get in here,” said Adelaide Maud 
calmly, and proceeded to step in. 

Several people tried to stop her. 

“I want to drive home with mummy,” said Jean. 

“And I mean to take Elma,” said Mabel. 

Mrs. Leighton leant back in the carriage. 

“I should like to mention,” she said, “that this 
is not a royal procession, and that we only take about 
two and a half minutes to get home in any case. What 
does it matter which carriage we go in ? ” 

“Every second is of value,” said Jean. 

“Well, here you are, Jean, get in beside your mother,” 
said Adelaide Maud. “And, Elma and Mabel, you 


The Home-Coming 291 

come with me. And, Mr. Leighton, you look after Miss 
Grace. What could be more admirable?” 

They did it because it seemed the simplest way out, 
except Cuthbert who backed into the station and came 
up on a cab with the luggage. He looked vindictively 
at Adelaide Maud as he descended, as though he would 
say, “This is your doing.” 

The three conveyances were blocking the wide sweep 
of gravel in front of the White House. 

Adelaide Maud patted one of the horses* heads in an 
unnecessary manner. 

“I must congratulate you on your professorship,** 
said she. 

“Thank you,** said Cuthbert. 

“So nice for your family too, to have you here all 
summer.** 

“Excellent,** said Cuthbert. 

“I don*t see how you can run a lectureship when 
you say so little.** Adelaide Maud spoke very crisply, 
and in a nice cool manner. 

Cuthbert looked stolidly at the men carrying in luggage. 

“The students will respect me, probably,’* he said 
grimly. 

Adelaide Maud laughed a clear ringing laugh. Then 
she looked at Cuthbert once “straight in the eye” and 
ran indoors. Cuthbert began pulling boxes about with 
unnecessary violence. 

They had tea in the drawing-room amidst the roses, 
for the tables were covered with them. Mabel did 
nothing but wander about and say, “Oh, oh, and isn’t 
it lovely to be home.” 

But Jean sat right down and in a business-like manner 


292 


The Story Book Girls 

began to describe London. Also, she was very sorry for 
Lima, because now she, Jean, knew what it was to be 
ill. She began to detail her symptoms to Lima. 

“Oh, Jean, you little monkey,” said Mabel. “Don’t' 
listen to her, she wasn’t ill a bit.” It was the only 
point on which Mabel and Jean really differed. 

Isobel came sailing in. Nothing could have been 
nicer than the way she greeted them. 

“Oh, Isobel, aren’t you dying to hear me sing?” 
asked Jean. It never dawned on her but that Isobel, 
who had been so keen to get her off to a good master, put 
art first and everything else afterwards. 

Mrs. Leighton would never forget the way in which 
Mabel received her. Mabs had developed into a finely 
balanced woman. There was no sign of her wanting 
to detract in the slightest from Isobel’s happiness. 

“Do let me see your ring. How pretty! And how 
it fits your hand. Just a beautiful ring. Some engage- 
ment rings look as though they had only been made for 
fat Jewesses. Don’t they? I love those tiny diamonds 
set round the big ones. Where are you going for your 
honeymoon?” 

“I’m going first for my things,” said Isobel. “I’ve 
got no further than that. Miss Meredith and I are 
taking a week in London next week.” 

That was her triumph, that she had “squared” Miss 
Meredith. Miss Meredith had really a lonely little 
heart beating beneath all her paltry ambitions. Always 
she had been stretching for what was very difficult of at- 
tainment. She had stretched for a wife for Robin, and 
she had stretched in vain. Then suddenly one day 
this undesirable Isobel had asked her to go to London 


The Home-Coming 293 

to help with her trousseau. No one perhaps knew 
what a strange and unlooked-for delight filled her heart, 
what gates of starchy reserve were opened to this new 
flood of gratitude iking within her. Robin had always, 
although influenced by her in an intangible way, treated 
her as though she were a useful piece of furniture. He 
so invariably discounted her services; it had made her 
believe that her only chance of keeping him at all was 
in imposing on him her hardest, most unlovable traits. 
That Isobel, of her own accord, should seek her advice, 
out of the crowd who were willing to confer it, really 
agitated her. From that moment she was Isobel’s 
willing ally. 

Isobel saw here the result of incalculable goodness 
as encouraged by Mr. Leighton. His words had stung 
her to an exalted notion of what she might do to show 
him that she could confer as well as receive. She should 
“ingratiate Sarah” in a thorough manner. The result 
of it surprised her more than she would confess. There 
were other ways of receiving benefits than by grabbing 
with both hands it seemed. Isobel began to think that 
unselfish people probably remained unselfish because 
they found it a paying business. Nothing would 
ever really relieve her mind of its mercenary ele- 
ment. 

The funniest experience of her life was this new friend- 
ship with Sarah. Mr. Leighton noted it, and she saw 
that he noted it. She went one day to him in almost a 
contrite mood. 

“I’ve begun to ingratiate Sarah,” said she. “I believe 
I’m rather liking the experience.” 

Mr. Leighton knew better than to lecture her at all. 


294 


The Story Book Girls 

He thought indeed that signs of relenting would not 
readily occur between either of them. 

“Goodness is an admirable habit,” he said lightly. 

She thanked him for having falleri iito her mood by 
this much. 

“Well, anyhow, a little exhibition of it on my .>part 
has evidently been a welcome tonic to Sarah,” she 
said. 

Mabel and Jean found her easier than of yore. Only 
Elma carried the reserve formed by what she had gone 
through into the present moment of rapture. They 
made Mabel play and Jean sing, and Adelaide Maud and 
Jean performed a duet together. 

Cuthbert pranced about and applauded heavily, and 
Adelaide Maud swung her crisp skirts and bowed low 
in a professional manner. 

“If I can’t sing,” said she, “I can bow. So do you 
mind if I do it again?” So she bowed again. 

It was quite different to the old Adelaide Maud 
who aired such starchy manners in their drawing- 
room. 

Lance came in by an early train. 

“Heard you were home,” said he, “and ran in to see 
if you’d take some Broken Hills, or Grand Trunks, or 
Consolidated Johnnies, you know.” 

He produced a note-book. 

“Now, Mrs. Leighton promised to try a whole mine 
of shares the other day, and she hasn’t done it. How 
am I to get on with my admirable firm, if my best clients 
fail me in this way?” 

Jean exploded into laughter. Lance as a stock- 
broker, what next ! 


The Home-Coming 295 

‘‘You needn’t laugh,” he said. “I made twenty- 
five pounds for the mater last week. Not your mater, 
mine !” 

“Don’t listen to Lance’s illegal practices,” said 
Elma. 

Lance struck an attitude in front of Mabel. 

“Oh, mother,” he said, “how you’ve growed. I’m 
afraid of you. Wait till you see what Maclean will 
say !” 

“Maclean?” 

“Yes. Now, Elma, don’t pretend to. look blank about 
it. It was you who told me.” 

Elma groaned. (If it only were Mr. Maclean !) 

“I told you nothing,” she said. “You are not to 
be trusted, I’ve always known that, in Stock Exchange 
or out of it. I’d never tell you a single thing.” 

“Well, it was Aunt Katharine,” said Lance with con- 
viction. She had just appeared in the doorway. 

“Well, well,” she said in a fat, breathless way. “Well, 
you’re home, and I am glad. Dear, how tall you both 
are! And is that the latest?” She looked at Mabel’s 
hat. “Well, well. We’ve had enough trouble with you 
away. Elma will be ready for none of that nonsense 
for a year or two, that’s one comfort. Jean, you are 
quite fat. Living in other people’s houses seems to 
agree with you. Not the life we were accustomed 
to. Young people had to stay at home in my 
day.” 

“Now, Aunt Katharine,” said Lance, who was a 
privileged person, “are they your girls, or Mrs. Leigh- 
ton’s, that you lecture them so?” 

“Look here, Lance,” said Elma, “Aunt Katharine 


296 The Story Book Girls 

isn’t a Broken Hill, or a Con — Consolidated Johnnie. 
You just leave her alone, will you?” 

“Elma’s become beastly dictatorial since she was 
ill,” said Lance savagely. “What’s that confab in the 
comer?” 

Mrs. Leighton was sitting with Adelaide Maud, and 
in the pause which ensued, everybody heard her say, 
“When Jean was a baby — no, it was when Elma was a 

baby, and Cuthbert, you know ” just as the girls 

were afraid she would five long years ago. 

“Oh,” said Cuthbert from the other end of the room, 
“my dear mother, if you go on with that ” 

“I can’t imagine why they never want to know what 
they did when they were babies,” said Mrs. Leighton, 
in an innocent manner. She disliked being stopped 
in any of these reminiscences. Adelaide Maud’s eyes 
danced. “They were so much nicer when they were 
babies,” sighed Mrs. Leighton. 

Then she turned round on them all. 

“You two girls have been home for an hour or more, 
and you never asked after your dear father.” 

Mabel giggled. Jean looked very serious. 

Elma said suddenly, “They are hiding something, 
mummy,” and the secret was out. 

Mr. Leighton had met them pretty nearly halfway. 
He had travelled with them, and in town had seen them 
into the train for Ridgetown. 

“And he told me,” said Mrs. Leighton, “that he 
had an important meeting which would keep him 
employed for the better part of the day ! ” 

“So he had,” said Mabel. 

“It’s just like John,” said Mrs. Leighton to Aunt 


The Home-Coming 297 

Katharine. “One might have known he wouldn’t 
stay away from these girls.” 

She smiled largely as she remembered his protesta- 
tions of the morning. 

“Oh, well,” said Aunt Katharine dingily, “it would 
have been nicer of him to have told you. You never 
were very firm with John.” 

Robin Meredith came in the evening when they were 
assembled with Mr. Leighton in the drawing-room and 
the girls were playing once more. They played and 
sang with a fine new confidence and abandonment which 
made up to Mr. Leighton for long weary months of wait- 
ing. Mabel, mostly on account of her father’s com- 
mendation, was quite composed and cheerful as she 
shook hands with Robin. Robin would not have minded 
the composure, but the cheerfulness wounded him a 
trifle. Mr. Leighton considered that his future life had 
more promise in it now that he saw Robin unnerved. 
If it were not for the beautiful ease of Mabel’s man- 
ner, he should have felt uncertain as to the conse- 
quences of all that had happened. But Mabel was 
so serenely right in every way that his last fear 
melted. 

Mabel herself began to wonder at her own placidity. 
She looked with thankfulness on the scene before her, 
all her family and Lima given back to her, every one 
loyal, untouched by the influence which she had so feared 
before, Isobel going to be married to a man from 
whom she was glad to feel herself freed, her home intact. 
Yet a bitter mist gathered in her mind and obliterated 
the joyousness. How wicked of her — to complain with 
everything here so lovely before her. 


298 The Story Book Girls 

No, not everything. 

Mabel, in the darkness that night before falling asleep, 
held her hand to her eyes. No, everything had not 
come back to her yet. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


‘‘Adelaide Maud’’ 

The Leightons had been writing off the invitations for 
the wedding, and Elma was in her room with Adelaide 
Maud. This had been converted into a sitting-room 
so long as Elma remained a convalescent. 

Elma had asked Isobel if she might have just one 
invitation for a special friend of her own. Now who 
was this friend, Mrs. Leighton wondered? She was 
surprised when Elma asked her, without any embarrass- 
ment, for Mr. Symington’s address. 

“And don’t tell who it is, please, mummy, because 
I have a little plot of my own on hand.” 

She sealed and addressed this important missive 
quite blandly under her mother’s eyes. 

Mrs. Leighton could not make it out. She was 
inclined to fall into Aunt Katharine’s ways and say, 
“In my young days, young people were not so blatant.” 

Mr. Leighton shook his head over her having allowed 
the invitation to go. 

“You can’t tell what net she may become entangled 
in,” he said, “and Symington cleared out in a very 
sudden manner, you know.” He could not get that 
out of his mind. 

Mrs. Leighton harked back to the old formula. 

299 


300 The Story Book Girls 

“Elma is only a child,” she said, “with too much of a 
superb imagination. She will have a lot of fancies 
before she is done.” 

Elma saw her letter posted, with only Mrs. Leighton 
and Miss Grace in the secret. She felt completely 
relieved and happy. Nothing had pleased her so 
much for a long time. 

“Why, Elma, your cheeks are getting pink at last,” 
said Adelaide Maud. 

She had come in to spend the afternoon with Elma 
while the others went to the dressmaker for the all- 
important gowns. Adelaide Maud had said she would 
come if Elma were to be quite alone. And Elma 
meant to be quite alone until Cuthbert came down 
by an early train. Then, after Adelaide Maud was 
announced, she rather hoped that Cuthbert might 
appear. 

“Are you sure they are pink?” she asked Adelaide 
Maud, “because I used to be so anxious that I might 
look pale.” 

“You must have thought yourself very good look- 
ing lately then,” said Adelaide Maud. “Elma,” she 
asked suddenly, “why don’t you girls sometimes call 
me Helen? I think you might by this time.” 

“I would rather call you Adelaide Maud,” said 
Elma. » 

“But I can’t be a Story Book for ever.” 

“I shouldn’t want to call you Helen when you looked 
like Miss Dudgeon. Mrs. Dudgeon wouldn’t like it, 
would she ? ” 

Ridgetown traditions still hampered their friendship, 
it seemed. 


‘‘Adelaide Maud ” 


301 


Adelaide Maud’s head fell low. 

“Do you know, Elma, in five minutes, if I just had 
one chance, in five minutes I could get my mother 
to say that it didn’t matter whether you called me 
Helen or not. But I never get the chance.” 

“I did one lovely and glorious thing yesterday,” 
said Elma. “Couldn’t I do another to-day?” 

“I don’t know what you did yesterday, but you 
can’t do anything for me to-day,” said Adelaide Maud 
stiffly. 

Cuthbert came strolling in. Adelaide Maud looked 
seriously annoyed. 

“You told me you would be quite alone,” she said to 
Elma. 

“Oh, you don’t mind about Cuthbert, do you?” 
asked Elma anxiously. “Besides, Cuthbert didn’t know 
you were coming.” 

“I did,” said Cuthbert shortly. 

Adelaide Maud had risen a little, and at this she sat 
down in a very straight manner, with her head slightly 
raised. She and Elma were on a couch near a tea- 
table. Cuthbert took an easy chair opposite. Then 
Adelaide Maud began to laugh. She laughed with a 
ringing bright laugh that was very amusing to Elma, but 
Cuthbert remained quite unmoved. 

Adelaide Maud looked at him. 

“Oh, please laugh a little,” she said humbly. 

Cuthbert did not take his eyes away from her. He 
simply looked and said nothing. 

“How are the invitations going on?” he asked 
Elma, as though apparently proving that Adelaide 
Maud did not exist. 


302 


The Story Book Girls 

Elma clasped her hands. 

“Beautifully. I’ve been allowed to ask all my ^par- 
ticulars.’ ” 

“Am I to be invited?” asked Adelaide Maud 
simply. 

“Mrs. and Miss Dudgeon,” said Elma in a hollow 
voice. “Do you think Mrs. Dudgeon will come?” she 
asked in a melancholy manner. 

“Not if Mr. Leighton looks like that,” said Adelaide 
Maud. She turned in a pettish manner away from him 
and gazed at Elma. 

Elma burst out laughing. 

“Oh, Cuthbert, I do think you are horrid to Adelaide 
Maud.” 

Adelaide Maud sat up again, looking perfectly de- 
lighted. 

“Now there,” she said, “I have been waiting for 
years for some one to say that about Mr. Leighton. 
Thank you so much, dear. It’s so perfectly true. For 
years I have been amiable and for years he has been — 


“A brute,” said Elma placidly. 

“Yes,” said Adelaide Maud. “And I’ve got to go 
on pretending to be a girl of spirit with a mamma who 
won’t understand the situation, and — and — I get 
no encouragement at all. It’s a horrid world,” said 
Adelaide Maud. 

Cuthbert rose from the easy chair, with a look in 
his eyes which Elma had never seen. 

“All I can say is,” he pretended to be speaking 
jocularly, “will the lady who has just spoken under- 
take to repeat these words in private — in ” 


“Adelaide Maud” 


303 

“No, she won’t,” said Adelaide Maud in a whisper. 

Elma sat shaking in every limb. The one thought 
that passed through her mind was that if she didn’t 
clear out, Cuthbert might kiss Adelaide Maud, and 
that would be awful. She crawled out of the room 
somehow or other. What the others were thinking of 
her she did not know. She wanted to reach something 
outside the door, and sank on a chair there. Oh, the 
selfishness of lovers ! • Adelaide Maud and Cuthbert 
were “making it up” while she sat shaking with her 
face in her hands in the long corridor. 

Mrs. Leighton found her there some little time after- 
wards. 

“Sh! mummy, speak in a whisper, please.” 

“Well, I never. Who is ill now, I should like to 
know?” 

“Adelaide Maud and Cuthbert.” 

She pulled her mother’s head down to her and whis- 
pered in her ear. 

“I didn’t know it was coming, they were so cross 
with one another. And then I knew it was. And I just 
slipped out. And I’m shaking so that I’m afraid to get 
off this chair. I should never be able to get engaged my- 
self — it’s so — en — enervating.” 

“Well, I never,” said Mrs. Leighton; “well, I 
never. Turned you out of your own room, my pet. Just 
like those Dudgeons.” 

“Oh, mummy, it’s lovely. I don’t mind. It’s 
just being ill that made me shake. Aren’t you glad 
it’s Adelaide Maud?” 

“Well — it never was anybody else, was it?” asked 
Mrs. Leighton blandly. 


304 


The Story Book Girls 

“Oh, mummy! You knew? 

Elma’s whispers became most accusing. 

Mrs. Leighton might have been as dense as possible 
in regard to her daughters, but Cuthbert’s heart had 
always lain bare. 

“Know?” asked she. “What do you think made 
Adelaide Maud run after you the way she did?” 

“Oh, mummy. It wasn’t only because of Cuthbert, 
was it?” 

“Well, I sometimes thought it was,” she said with a 
smile at her lips. 

She looked at the shut door. 

“But I can’t have you stuck on a hall chair in the cor- 
ridors for the afternoon, all on account of the Dudgeons,” 
said she. “Besides, they’ll be bringing up tea.” 

She knocked smartly on the door. 

“Mamma, I never saw anything like your nerve,” 
said Elma. 

Cuthbert opened the door. He stood with the fine 
light of a conqueror shining in his eyes, the triumph 
of attainment in his bearing. 

Mrs. Leighton’s nerve broke down at the sight of 
him. It was true then. 

“Oh, Cuthbert, what is this you have been doing?” 
wailed she. Her son was a man and had left her. 

Without a word he led her into the arms of Adelaide 
Maud. 

“And remember, please, Mrs. Leighton,” said that 
personage finally, “that I would have been here long before 
if he had let me, and that I had practically to propose 
before he would have me. Surely that is humiliating 
enough for a Dudgeon.” 


Adelaide Maud ’’ 305 

‘‘Cuthbert wanted to give you your proper position 
in life, dear, if possible.” 

“When all I wanted was himself — how silly of him,” 
said Adelaide Maud. 

“Would you mind my telling you that that poor 
child of mine who has just recovered from typhoid 
fever is sitting like a hall porter at your door, trem- 
bling like an aspen leaf,” said Mrs. Leighton. “Won’t 
you get her in?” 

They laughed, but it really was no joke to Elma. 
She had known something of the sorrows of life lately, 

and had borne up under them, even under the great 

trial of Miss Annie’s death ; but because two people 
were in love with one another and had said so, she took 
to weeping. Cuthbert carried her in and petted her 
on his knee, and Adelaide Maud stood by and said 
what a selfish man he was, how thoughtless of others, 
and how really wicked it was of him to have allowed 

this to happen to Elma. She stood stroking Elma’s 

hair and looking at Cuthbert, and Cuthbert patted 
Elma and looked at Adelaide Maud. Then Cuthbert 
caught Adelaide Maud’s hand and she had to sit 
beside them, and then tea came and Elma was thankful. 

“I know what it will be,” she said. “You will 
never look at any of us again, just at each other.” 

Mrs. Leighton regarded the tea-table. 

“It appears,” said she, “as if for the first time for 
years I might be allowed to pour out tea in my own 
house. You all seem so preoccupied.” 

“Mrs. Leighton,” said Adelaide Maud, “you are 
perfectly sweet. You are the only one who doesn’t 
reproach me, and I’m taking away your only son.” 


306 The Story Book Girls 

“May I ask when?’’ asked Cuthbert sedately, but 
his eyes were on fire. 

“Don’t you tell him, Helen,” said Mrs. Leighton. “It’s 
good for them not to be in too great a hurry.” 

“She called me Helen,” said Adelaide Maud. 

“Now, Lima! Elma — say Helen, or you’ll spoil 
the happiest day of our lives.” 

“Say Helen, you monkey!” cried Cuthbert, giving 
her a large piece of cake and several lumps of sugar. 

Elma took her cup and the cake in a helpless way. 

“You just said that to get accustomed to the name 
yourself,” she declared. “And if you don’t mind, I would 
rather have toast to begin with.” 

Adelaide Maud giggled brightly and her hair shone 
like gold. Cuthbert stood looking, looking at her till a 
piece of cake sidled off the plate he was carrying. 

“Mummy, dear, do you like having tea with me all 
alone?” asked Elma. 

That was what came of it in many ways. Cuthbert 
and Adelaide Maud had not a word for any one. But 
then they had been so long separated by social ties 
and an unfriendly world and “pride,” as Helen put 
it, and various things. Mrs. Dudgeon took the news 
“carved in stone,” and her daughters as something 
that merely could not be helped. Helen had always 
been crazy over these Leightons. Mrs. Dudgeon 
unbent to Mr. Leighton, however. He was a man to 
whom people invariably offered the best, and for his 
own part he could never quite see where the point of 
view of other people came in where Mrs. Dudgeon was 
concerned. Cuthbert was already sufficiently estab- 
lished as rather a brilliant young university man, and 


“ Adelaide Maud ” 


307 


a partnership in a large practice in town was being 
arranged for. Mrs. Dudgeon could unbend with 
some graciousness therefore, and, after all, Helen was 
the eldest of four, and none were married yet. “Time 
is a great leveller,” said Adelaide Maud. 

All the love and enthusiasm which had been saved 
from the engagement of Isobel were showered on the 
unheeding Cuthbert and Adelaide Maud. 

“It isn’t that I don’t appreciate it,” said Adelaide 
Maud. “I know how dreadful it would be to be with- 
out it, but oh ! somehow there’s so little time to attend 
to every one who is good to me.” 

Isobel, in a certain measure, was annoyed at the 
interruption to her own arrangements. In a day 
things seemed to change from her being the centre of 
interest, to the claims of Adelaide Maud coming 
uppermost. She looked on the engagement as a com- 
plete bore. Robin seemed depressed with the news. 
She often wondered how far she could influence him, 
and turned rather a cold side to him for the moment. 
Then her ordinary wilfulness upheld her serenely. 
After all, once married to Robin, she would be inde- 
pendent of the domestic enthusiasms of the Leighton 
crowd. She was tired of the pose where she had to 
appear as one of them, and longed to assert herself 
differently as soon as possible. 

As for the girls themselves — what had London or 
anything offered equal to this? 

They could not believe in their luck in having 
Adelaide Maud as a sister. 

Lima went in the old way to give the news to Miss 
Grace. 


308 The Story Book Girls 

“Oh, I’m so pleased, my dear, so pleased,” said 
poor lonely Miss Grace. “It makes up for so much, 
my dear, when one grows old, to see young people 
happy. We are so inclined to be extravagant of happi- 
ness when we are young. Some one ought always to 
be on the spot to pick up the little stray pieces we let 
drop and enable us to regain them again.” 

“Weren’t you ever engaged to be married, Miss 
Grace?” Elma asked quite simply. 

Miss Grace was not at all embarrassed in the usual 
way of old maids. She gazed over the white and gold 
drawing-room, and one saw the spark of flint in her 
eyes. 

“Not engaged, dear, but all the inclination to be. 
Ah, yes, I had the inclination. And he invited me, but 
affairs at that time made it unsuitable.” 

“Oh, Miss Grace, only unsuitable?” Elma’s heart 
went out to her. Beneath everything she knew it 
must be Miss Annie. 

“Yes, dear. And the others found him different 
to what I did. Selfish and dictatorial, you know. 
Nothing he did seemed to fit in to what they expected. 
He grew annoyed with them. I sometimes hardly won- 
der at that. It made him appear to be what they 
really thought him. And in the end I asked him to 
go.” 

“Oh, Miss Grace!” 

Elma’s voice was a tragedy. 

“It was not fair, it was not fair to him or to you. 
He didn’t want to marry the others. What did it 
matter what they thought?” 

“If he could have married me then, it wouldn’t 


“Adelaide Maud” 


309 


have mattered,’^ said Miss Grace. “I knew that he 
was good and true, you see; so that I never doubted 
him. But he was poor, and they worried me nearly 
to my grave. I was very weak,” said Miss Grace. 

“And I suppose he went and married some one else 
in a fit of hopelessness,” said Elma tragically. “What 
a nice wife you would have made, Miss Grace!” 

Miss Grace started a trifle, and looked anxiously at 
Elma. She did not seem to hear the compliment. 

“Oh, we all have our little stories,” she said. “But 
don’t be extravagant of your beautiful youth, my 
dear.” 

“I don’t feel youthful or beautiful in any way,” 
said Elma. “I think it’s the fever. I feel as though 
I had been born a hundred years ago. I wish I could 
keep from shivering whenever anything either exciting 
or lovely happens. Now, I never was so happy in 
my life as I was yesterday over Cuthbert and Ade- 
laide Maud, and I was so shaky that I simply burst 
into tears. What’s the good of being youthful if one 
feels like that?’’ 

“Wait till you have a holiday, dear, you will soon 
get over that.” 

Miss Grace did her best to cheer her up. Elma’s 
thoughts ran back to the story she had heard. 

“Miss Grace,” she asked, “this man that you were 
engaged to, was he ” 

The door opened and Saunders appeared. 

“Dr. Merry weather,” said he. 

Miss Grace rose in a direct manner. She controlled 
her voice with a little nervous cough. 

“This is just the person to tell you that you ought 


310 


The Story Book Girls 

to be off for a change,” she said as they shook hands with 
Dr. Merryweather. 

Miss Grace told him about Elma’s shakiness as though 
it were a real disease. Mrs. Leighton had never looked 
upon it as anything more than “just a mannerism,” 
as Miss Grace put it. Dr. Merr)rweather ran his keen 
eye over Elmans flushed face. 

“You mustn’t have too many engagements in your 
family,” he said, “while you remain a convalescent.” 

He had been only then arranging with Mrs. Leighton 
that she should take Elma off for a trip. 

“Mr. Leighton will go too,” he said kindly. “I 
don’t think any of you realize how much your parents 
have suffered recently.” 

“Oh, but when?” asked Elma in a most disap- 
pointed voice. “Not at once, I hope.” 

“Almost at once,” said Dr. Merryweather. “Before 
this first wedding at least.” 

Elma’s face fell a trifle. 

“Oh, well, I suppose I must,” she said. “But so 
much depends on my being just on the spot — up to 
Isobel’s wedding, you know.” 

“I said, ‘No more engagements,’” said Dr. Merry- 
weather with his eye still on her flushed face. 

“This isn’t exactly an engagement,” said Elma 
with a sigh. “I wish it were.” 

There was no explaining to Dr. Merryweather of 
course. There was even not much chance of enlightening 
Miss Grace. One could only remain a kind of petted 
invalid and await developments. Now that Adelaide 
Maud was really one of them and Cuthbert in such a 
blissful state, it would seem as though nothing were 


“Adelaide Maud” 


3 “ 


required to make Elma perfectly happy. But there 
was this one trouble of Mabel’s which only she could 
share. For of course one couldn’t go about telling 
people that Mabel had set great store by the one man 
who had run away. 

“If only George Maclean would play up,” sighed 
Elma. 

But almost every one played up except George 
Maclean. 


CHAPTER XXIX 

Mr. Symington 

Mabel and Jean were to be bridesmaids at IsobePs 
wedding. Ridgetown had only one opinion for that 
proceeding. “It was just like the Leightons.” 

Aunt Katharine was more explicit. 

“It’s hardly decent,” she said. “Do you want the 
man to show how many wives he could have had.” 

“To show one he couldn’t have, more likely,” said 
Mrs. Leighton shortly. She herself could not reconcile 
it to her ideas of what should have been. Mr. Leighton 
was adamant on the question, however. Isobel had 
set her heart on this marriage and the marriage was 
to be carried out. She was their guest and their respon- 
sibility. It would be scandalous if they did not uphold 
her as they would have done had there been none of 
this former acquaintance with Robin. It would seem 
as though they had attached unnecessary importance 
to what now was termed “nothing more than a flirta- 
tion.” It was a pity they could not all like Robin as 
they ought to, or have been extremely fond of Isobel; 
but under the circumstances, they at least must all “play 
the game.” 

Isobel took the information tranquilly. It seemed 
312 


Mr. Symington 313 

to her that she might have been allowed to arrange 
her own bridesmaids, then she recognized where the 
wisdom of Mr. Leighton asserted itself on her side. There 
was much less chance of conjecture where she and 
Mabel showed up in friendly manner together with 
one another. She had one friend from London as her 
first bridesmaid, and after this the question of dresses 
obliterated everything. 

Jean, it is true, had still a soul for other things. She 
moaned for her Slavska on every occasion. She rushed 
to mirrors in agony lest her chjn or throat muscles 
were getting into disrepair, and she talked already of 
having to renew her lessons. 

“You are just like a cheap motor,” said Betty at 
last, “always having to be done up. Why don’t 
you keep on being a credit to your method like the 
expensive machines ? They don’t rattle themselves to 
bits in a week.” 

Betty was getting a little out of patience with 
life. 

“I’ve had a ghastly time of it,” she admitted to 

Mabel. “All the spunk is out of Lima, you know, and 

what with her being ill and Isobel engaged, I’ve led a 
lonely life. And now Jean can’t talk of anything 

but her Slavska. I hate the man.” 

When Jean was not talking about Slavska, she was 
sending boxes of flowers to the club girls. Reams of 
thanks in long letters came by the morning posts. 

There was no doubt of the popularity of Jean. 

“I should never be in deadly fear now of having to get 
on alone in life,” she said. “There’s such comfort in 
girlS; you can’t think.” 


314 The Story Book Girls 

Mabel had always remained a little more outside that 
radiantly friendly crowd, yet had quite as admiring 
a following. Mr. Leighton unendingly congratulated 
himself for letting them both have the experience. 
“Though never again,” he declared, “never again, 
will I allow one of you away from home.” 

Then occurred Cuthbert’s engagement. In a curious 
way it comforted Mr. Leighton. He was acquiring 
another daughter. Adelaide Maud loved that view 
of it best of all. 

“If Mr. Leighton had been against me, I should 
have refused you,” she explained to Cuthbert. 

“You mean that I should,” he corrected her. “Now 
what I am about to propose ” 

“Are you really going to propose, dear?” asked 
Adelaide Maud innocently. Cuthbert grinned. 

“You are to be married to me in the autumn,” said 
he. 

Adelaide Maud cogitated. 

“Well, failing a real proposal, a command of this 
sort may take its place. I shall endeavour to be ready 
for you in the autumn.” 

“They are the funniest pair,” said Jean; “Helen is 
so cool and Cuthbert so domineering ! And I used to 
be so stuck on engagements,” she sighed. 

All the girls were in Lima’s room, where Isobel tried 
on some of her finery. Lima lay on the couch at the 
window. She had had her trip with Mr. and Mrs. 
Leighton, and had come home with some colour and a 
good deal more vitality. Yet still there was much to 
be desired. Dr. Merryweather thundered out advice 
about the wedding. 


Mr. Symington 315 

“She is not to be excited,” he kept hammering at 
every one. Elma felt a culprit in this respect. Nothing 
excited her except the one fact which evidently could 
not be altered. She had sent an invitation to Mr. 
Symington which he had not acknowledged in any 
shape or form. It seemed so ignominious. One could 
imagine that rather splendid and cultured person 
saying, “Oh, these young Leightons again! Don’t 
trouble me with their children’s weddings,” or some- 
thing to that effect. She grew cold as she thought of 
what Mabel’s disgust Would be when she heard of the 
flag she had held out (what more definite signal to 
“come on” could any one have given!) and of his utter 
disregard of that mild overture. She grew more and 
more troubled about it. So much so that Mrs. Leigh- 
ton remarked to her husband as each list of acceptances 
came from home, and no word of Mr. Symington, “I 
believe that child is moping because he does not 
answer.” 

Mr. Leighton was all for the righting that time would 
accomplish. “She may forget this, whatever it is, in 
a day,” said he. He said to Elma, however, “I hear 
Symington was asked. Shouldn’t wonder if he were 
so far away that he hasn’t had the letter.” 

That possibility gladdened her heart immediately. 
Perhaps after all he had not yet made his slighting remarks 
about the Leighton children. The Clutterbucks also 
were abroad, so that there seemed no chance of any of the 
connection being present. 

Elma finally came home, and they had reached the 
Saturday afternoon before the wedding on the following 
Tuesday. A very finished example of the London girl 


3i 6 The Story Book Girls 

had appeared as IsobePs third bridesmaid, and every- 
body was chatting incontinently. Jean ran on with 
her own views of things, since she usually found these 
of more interest than anything else. 

“I feel now as though I wouldn’t be engaged for a 
ransom,” she said. ‘‘I think of all the men we know 
and how nice they are, but I don’t want to be married to 
them.” 

should hope not,” said Isobel. “Why should 

you?” 

“All right, Isobel, I won’t poach. But I’d rather 
give a concert than have a wedding.” 

It was her latest desire to give a concert, in the Bech- 
stein or Eolian Hall, when her voice was “ripe.” She 
had even consulted an agent. 

“If only papa would see it,” she said, “it would cost 
£6o, but I should get it all back again.” 

“Oh, one of these private concerts,” said the London 
girl. 

“Yes,” broke in Mabel. “Where you pay £6o to 
an agent and he looks after everything including the 
people with whom you appear. You fill one part of the 
hall with your friends, and they fill up the rest. Free 
tickets, you know. Then each portion applauds like 
mad whatever you do. It all depends on who has 
most friends who gets the most encores. It is the duty 
of the rival crowd to remain silent when their own friend 
isn’t performing.” 

“Oh, Mabel,” said Jean. 

“It’s true,” said the London girl. “And if a critic 
comes you treasure him, oh! you treasure him! There 
are seats and seats waiting for critics. This one poor 


Mr. Symington 317 

man puts it as neatly as he can, Miss So-and-So sang 
‘agreeably,’ then he rushes off to the most adjacent 
hall, and does the same for the next aspirant to musical 
honours.” 

“And you immediately buy a book for press cuttings,” 
quoth Isobel. 

“And only that poor one goes in.” 

“You are the most depressing crowd I ever met,” 
said Jean despairingly. 

“That’s not all,” said the London girl. “After 
paying for the other performers, you may happen to 
find that they have already paid the agent in order to 
get appearing with you.” 

“Oh, I believe a lot, but I won’t believe that,” said 
Jean. 

“You may just as well,” said the London girl, “be- 
cause it happened to me. And it’s very good business for 
the agent.” 

“Oh dear,” cried Jean. “Do be silent about it then. 
With you in the house, do you think my father would 
ever allow me to give that concert ? ” 

“I sincerely hope he won’t,” said the London girl 
heartily. 

Betty sat looking very glum. 

“Why we should all be here discussing Jean’s career, 
when there are far more important things to think about, 
I can’t imagine. Jean, you might stop talking of your 
own affairs for once and help with Isobel’s. Here’s 
another box to be opened.” 

Jean stood pulling at the string. 

“Still,” she said obstinately, “if you have a voice and 
a fine method, and a man behind you like Slavska ? 


318 The Story Book Girls 

“Oh, put her out,” wailed Betty. 

A chorus of “Put her out” ensued. Cuthbert, coming 
in the midst of this, without asking for particulars, took 
Jean in his arms, and carried her off. 

“I think it’s perfectly miraculous the strength that 
comes to engaged people,” said Betty simply. 
“Cuthbert couldn’t have moved Jean a few weeks 
ago.” 

They both returned at that moment, looking warm but 
satisfied. 

“The pater is growling downstairs that he can’t get one 
of you to play to him nowadays,” said Cuthbert. “There 
are to be no more weddings, he says.” 

“Oh, there never is to be no more anything,” wailed 
Betty. “And I’m only half grown up. You’ve 
exhausted papa before one of you have done any- 
thing.” 

“Well, let Jean go and rehearse her concert,” remarked 
Isobel calmly. 

“I require a good accompanist,” said Jean. 

Elma had been looking out at the window. She 
heard the gate open, to four minor notes, containing 
the augmented fourth of the opening to the Berlioz 
“King of Thule,” which they all loved. Somebody 
had said “Oil that gate,” and Mr. Leighton had objected 
because it reminded him of the “King of Thule.” 
When Elma heard the magic notes, and looked out at 
the window, she could have dispensed with minor intervals 
for the rest of her existence. 

Mr. Symington was coming up the drive. 

Oh, Love of our Lives, and now this ! She could at last 
get better from typhoid fever. 


Mr. Symington 3 1 9 

“I don’t think any of you need go down to papa,” said 
she. “There’s an old johnny come to see him.” 

The bell rang at that moment. 

Cuthbert approached her. 

“I should fancy,” said he, “that with all the good 
training you have had from Miss Grace, you would 
have known better than to talk of old johnnies. Who’s 
the josser, anyway?” 

“Cuthbert, my darling boy, you are just a little 
bit vulgar. Cuthbert, I’ve never been so happy in 
my life as I am at the present moment.” 

“So long as you don’t weep about it, I don’t mind,” 
said Cuthbert. 

Elma got up. “I think I could dance,” said she. 

“Do,” said Cuthbert, and put his arm round 
her. 

To the dismay of the girls, he swung Elma into the 
midst of the wedding trousseau. Boxes were snatched 
up, tissue paper sent flying in all directions. Every girl 
in the room screamed maledictions on them both. This 
was quite unlike Elma, to be displaying her own feelings 
at the risk of anything else in the world. They stopped 
with a wild whirl. 

“Elma wanted to dance,” said Cuthbert coolly, 
“and as she hasn’t had any exercise lately, I thought it 
would be good for her. Have some more?” he asked 
her. 

A demon of delight danced in Elma’s eyes. 

“Why, certainly,” she said politely. 

There was no holding them in at all. 

Elma had her first real lecture, from Mabel of all 
people. 


320 


The Story Book Girls 

“I think it^s very inconsiderate of you, Elma — just 
when we are so busy. You might arrange to stop fooling 
with Cuthbert when these things are lying about. It 
isn’t fair of you.” 

“Oh, Mabs,” said Elma, “you don’t know! I’ve 
been under the clouds so long — thunder clouds, with 
everything raining down on me, and hardly any sun- 
shine at all. And just at the present moment I’m on top 
of the clouds, treading on air; I can’t describe it. But 
even although you are so solemn and Isobel is so vexed 
and Jean is so haughty and Betty is simply vicious, why, 
even in spite of that, I’d like another dance with Cuth- 
bert.” 

Her eyes shone. (Oh, what — what was taking place 
downstairs ?) 

Cuthbert said “Come on,” in a wild way. These 
spirits had been natural with him just lately. 

But this time five girls intervened. 

“Not if I know it,” said Isobel. 

And “Get you to your Adelaide Maud,” cried 
Betty. So there was no more dancing for Elma just 
then. 

“However,” said she, “for the first time in my life, I 
think, I’m really looking forward to Tuesday night.” 
They were to have a dance in honour of Isobel’s wedding. 
“I think that whether Dr. Merry weather is alive or 
dead, I shall dance the whole evening.” She began to 
adopt Jean’s manner. “Do you know,” she said to her, 
“I feel so inspired. I think I could go and compose 
an anthem!” (What were they saying downstairs?) 

“Oh,” said Betty. “She said that just before she 
took ill, you know. And I lay awake at night thinking 


321 


Mr. Symington 

she would die. Because I asked you, you know, just in 
fun, were you going to die because you wanted to write 
an anthem.” 

“On the contrary,” said Elma, “I now want to 
write an anthem because I’m about to live.” 

“Look here, Elma,” said Mabel sedately, “if you don’t 
sit down and keep yourself quiet, I shall get Dr. Merry- 
weather to come.” 

“If he has time,” said Isobel drily. 

“Time?” asked Mabel. 

“Yes, before he gets married to Miss Grace.” 

That bomb burst itself to silence in the most complete 
pause that had fallen on the Leighton family for a 
long time. They began to collect their scattered senses 
with difficulty. Elma thought, “Mr. Symington in the 
drawing-room and Miss Grace going to be married ! Am 
I alive or dead?” 

“Didn’t you notice?” said IsobePs calm voice. 
“Haven’t you seen that Dr. Merryweather’s heart is 
with Miss Grace? You could tell that from the colour 
of his gloves. Lemon yellow ever since Miss Annie 
died.” 

“Oh, Isobel,” said Mabel gravely. 

Elma remembered her asking, “And Miss Grace, 

this man, was he ” and Saunders opening the 

door and announcing, “Dr. Merry weather.” Was this 
something more than a coincidence, and was Isobel 
right ? Surely Miss Grace would have let her know. 
Then the certainty that Miss Grace would far more 
easily let an alien like Isobel know, by reason of her 
own embarrassment, than a friend like Elma through 
frank and easy confidence, began to convince her. She 


Y 


322 


The Story Book Girls 

heard the gate sing its little song of warning again at that 
moment. Miss Meredith tripped in. 

Miss Meredith ! 

Elma put her head out at the open window. 

*^Oh, Miss Meredith, do come upstairs, weVe such a 
lot to show you.’’ 

Sarah came safely up. (Oh the relief !) What if she 
met Mr. Symington, and this new castle of cards came 
tumbling down to more interference from that quarter. 
Besides, they were soon going to tea, and Mabel was 
still unwarned. Elma discreetly hoped that Mabel 
would not faint. As for herself, her shakiness seemed 
gone for ever. She was a lion, defending Mabel. 

Miss Meredith floated about the room. “Perfectly 
sweet,” she said one minute, and “Isn’t it a dream?” 
the next. (What was Mr. Symington saying in the 
drawing-room ?) 

It came alarmingly near tea-time. Elma made 
everybody prink up a little. “We are all such frights,” 
she said, “and there’s some old johnny with papa in 
the drawing-room.” 

“I do believe you know who it is,” said Betty, “and 
won’t tell us.” She was in a suspicious mood with society 
in general. 

“I do,” said Elma simply. “It’s Mr. Symington.” 

Mabel did not faint. She was providentially with her 
back to the others, packing a tulle dress in tissue paper 
just then, and one has to be very particular with tulle. 
She was quite collected and calm when she finished. 
Miss Meredith was the colour of the Liberty green screen 
behind her. Her energy did not fail her in this crisis, 
however. 


Mr. Symington 323 

“Why, it’s nice Mr. Symington comes back,” she said. 
“Is he coming to the wedding?” 

“He is,” said Elma. “He was my ‘particular.’ I 
asked Isobel if I might invite him.” 

“Who is he, anyway?” asked Isobel, patting her 
hair gently in front of a mirror. 

(“Oh, Isobel, my friend, if you only knew that,” 
Elma conferred with herself, “you wouldn’t perhaps 
be the centre of attraction to-day.”) 

“He’s a man who’s great friends with the pater,” 
said Jean unconcernedly. “He goes abroad a lot and 
writes up things and develops photos and has a place in 
Wales.” 

“A place in Wales, how nice!” said the London girl. 
“But it isn’t the great Mr. Symington, is it?” 

“Why, yes, I suppose it must be,” said Jean. 

“Of course it is,” said Miss Meredith, socially active 
once more. “Mr. Symington is a very famous young 
man.” 

“Good gracious,” said the London girl, “my curling 
tongs at once, please. These surprises are very demoral- 
izing. Look at my hair.” 

They all made themselves beautiful for “the great Mr. 
Symington.” 

Mabel turned a pair of wide eyes on Elma. Elma 
nodded like a little mother, with a wealth of smiles at her 
lips. (Oh, Mabel, play up !) 

Cuthbert had found his mother coming out of the 
drawing-room. 

“Well, you seem in good spirits,” said she. 

“ Who is in there ? ” he asked. 

“Mr. Symington.” 


324 


The Story Book Girls 

“Oh, it’s he, is it?” 

“Why do you ask?” 

“Oh, for no particular reason,” said Cuthbert. 
“Only Elma saw him coming in and called him an old 
johnny. I knew something was up.” 

“Elma?” asked Mrs. Leighton anxiously. 

“Yes. And she’s in great form about something. 
Haven’t seen her so gay for an age.” 

Mrs. Leighton’s eyes dropped. “Poor little girl,” 
she said to herself. She thought it best to proceed 
upstairs, and break some of the surprise of Mr. 
Symington’s arrival. 

She found them in a room where boxes were piled in 
every direction. It was like her that in her present 
dilemma she should immediately begin to reprove them 
for their untidy habits. 

“This room is really a disgrace,” she said, “Just 
look at all these boxes ! And it’s tea-time and not one 
of you in the drawing-room with your father, the only after- 
noon he has too ! Elma, what have you been doing to make 
your hair so untidy?” 

“My hair is only a wig, and this is my room,” said 
Elma firmly. “For the last ten minutes I have been try- 
ing to get to my own mirror. We are prinking ourselves 
up for the great Mr. Symington.” 

“Oh,” said Mrs. Leighton. “So you know. Well, 
he only got the invitation a few days ago, when he was 
buried in Servia or some outlandish place. He came right 
on.” 

“For my wedding?” asked Isobel in cool surprise. 

Miss Meredith gazed in a rather frightened manner at 
every one. 


Mr. Symington 325 

said Elma. “Not altogether. There were 
other reasons.’^ She determined to cut all the ground 
from under the feet of Sarah. “I arranged it with Mr. 
Symington/’ she said in an important voice. Then, 
with the airy manner of the London girl, she patted down 
the turbulent wig, which had so annoyed Mrs. Leighton. 
“He is a perfect duck,” she said lightly. 


CHAPTER XXX 


‘‘ Now here there dawneth ’’ 

The organ in the Ridgetown church pealed in a stately 
manner the wedding music from Lohengrin. Isobel, 
the bride, moved with exactitude slowly down the aisle 
with her three bridesmaids. Mr. Leighton, presum- 
ably leading her, was compelled to delay himself several 
times. Who could have known that the arm lying 
on his was manipulating matters so conscientiously ! 
It was inimitably done. IsobePs entourage arranged 
itself in perfect order, and knowing that everything 
was properly completed, she raised her eyes to those 
of Robin just as the last chord sounded. This had 
been rigorously rehearsed, but nothing could have 
been better carried out. The ceremony of marriage 
commenced. 

There were more dramas played out that day than 
what Ridgetown called the “drama” of Mabel’s acting 
bridesmaid to Isobel. Ridgetown was delightfully curious 
in noting that Robin, for instance, looked nervous 
and disturbed. The darting glances which had so 
unnerved the Leighton family long ago, dwelt on 
Isobel only occasionally. Robin would not be at his 
happiest till the ceremony was over. 

326 


“Now here there dawneth” 


327 

Whether by accident or design, Miss Grace, who 
was unable to join the wedding party on account of 
her mourning, came in quietly to church with Dr. 
Merryweather. Here was drama enough if one liked 
to look further as Isobel had done. Then Mr. Syming- 
ton had been ordered to be an usher. The groomsman, 
a Mr. Clive, a friend of the Merediths, was of course out 
of the usher part of the business. So Cuthbert and 
George Maclean and Lance and Mr. Symington were 
requisitioned. They had to show in the guests and 
give the cue to the organist, and take the bridesmaids 
out afterwards. Miss Meredith had been of opinion 
that they did not require so many ushers. The girls 
insisted on four at least. 

Elma was not in the seventh heaven which she 
had inhabited a few days before. There was some- 
thing still unravelled about Mr. Symington’s atti- 
tude. 

She was not to know, of course, that he had immedi- 
ately placed himself in Mr. Leighton’s hands in regard 
to Mabel. That much-startled person only thought 
of another complication — Mabel, when Elma had set 
her heart on him ! In a disturbed manner he had 
endeavoured to let Mr. Symington know that he might 
find difficulties in the way. He begged, above all things, 
that he might not rush matters. 

“Give us time to think a little,” he pleaded. “We 
have had so much of this sort of thing lately.” 

Mr. Symington would have preferred to have had it 
out then and there. “You understand,” he said, “that 
I left this unsaid before, because I thought, in fact I 
was led definitely to understand, that she was engaged 


328 The Story Book Girls 

to Meredith, and that my presence here was a trouble 
to her.’^ 

“Ah, that’s it — perhaps,” said Mr. Leighton. “It 
was not because of Meredith. There may be other 
reasons.” 

Mr. Symington’s hopes went down at a rush. 

When the girls crowded into the room for tea, his 
greeting and Mabel’s consisted of a mere clasp of the 
hand on either side with no words spoken at all. But 
Mabel felt suddenly as though she could face the world. 
Was it strength he had given her by the mere touch 
of his hand? She could not raise her eyes to let him or 
anybody else see what was written there. 

The deadlock puzzled the triumphant Elma. Miss 
Grace comforted her a little. “These things always 
come right — sooner or later.” 

These two good friends had not the firmness to probe 
that remark further, though Elma was dying to ask 
about Dr. Merryweather. 

“I’d like to help them,” said Elma instead, “but I 
should feel like the ‘tactful woman’ that Mr. Maclean 
was laughing at. He says that when tactful women 
write novels they are always making people drop hand- 
kerchiefs in order to help the heroine, or having a friend 
outside or something of that sort at the right moment. 
It made me feel so silly over sending the invitation 
to Mr. Symington. Especially,” continued she sadly, 
“since he doesn’t seem to be making much use of it. It’s 
very enervating to be tactful, especially when your tact 
doesn^t come off.” 

Miss Grace looked at her long and kindly. 

“Don’t bury your sympathies in the cause of others 


“Now here there dawneth ” 329 

too much, dear,” she said. “With some of us, with 
you and me for instance, it might become more of a weak- 
ness perhaps than a real virtue.” 

Elma immediately thought, “There is something 
in what Isobel said after all.” 

Instead of giving voice to it, she said, “I have 
bothered about Mabs, I know. But then, I haven’t 
any affairs of my own, you see.” 

“Oh, dear child, never be sure, never be too sure 
about that,” said Miss Grace. 

A delightful feeling stole over Elma. Could it be 
possible that anything exciting could ever happen to 
herself. But no — how could it ? 

“I think it’s papa always telling us no woman ought 
to be married until she’s twenty-three that de — demor- 
alizes me so,” she said. “And lately, since Mabs is 
nearly that age, he is actually running it on to twenty- 
five.” 

“Yes, but they never really mean it,” said Miss 
Grace. 

“Well, one thing I intend to see to is that Mr. Sym- 
ington takes Mabel out of church after the wedding. 
Sarah wants him. And Sarah is not going to have 
him.” 

“I think you are quite right there,” said Miss 
Grace. 

Elma got hold of Mr. Symington herself. “I want 
you to do me a great favour,” she said. “I want you to 
escort Mabel on Tuesday.” 

“It isn’t a favour,” he said. He pulled his big 
shoulders together and looked magnificent. He was 
browned and tanned with the sun. Only a slight frown 


33 ° 


The Story Book Girls 

between the eyes to be cleared away and then he would 
be the old Mr. Symington. 

“Well; please do it like this. Ask Mabel if you 
may.” 

“Now?” asked Mr. Symington. 

“If you like,” said Elma. 

They were on the lawn after dinner, and Mr. Sym- 
ington in two days had hardly had a glimpse of Mabel, 
far less any conversation with her. 

She was talking to Isobel. 

He walked straight up to her. 

“May I escort you out of church on Tuesday?” he 
asked. 

Mabel looked up in a puzzled way, then her eyes lit 
with shyness and something much more brilliant than 
had been seen in them for a long time. 

“Yes,” she said simply. 

(Could he know how her heart thumped to that quiet 
“yes”?) 

“Thank you.” 

(Oh, after all, after all, could the sun shine after 
all!) 

Isobel broke in coldly. 

“I had understood from Robin that Mr. Symington 
would take Miss Meredith.” 

Mabel turned cold. She could not help it, for the 
life of her she could not help it, she turned an appeal- 
ing glance on Mr. Symington. This he had hardly 
required, but it helped him to a joyous answer. 

“Oh, no. Miss Leighton. Some mistake. I^m bound 
to Miss Mabel.” 

Elma strolled up. “It’s all because of Cuthbert’s 


‘‘ Now here there dawneth ” 


331 

insisting on taking Helen. Cuthbert ought to have 
taken Mabel. Mr. Clive takes the first bridesmaid; 
Mr. Symington, Mabel; George Maclean, Jean.” 

“Who takes you?” asked Mr. Symington. 

“Oh, I’m not in the procession,” said Elma. 

“Yes, you are.” Mabel was quite animated now. 
“The whole family trails out in pairs with somebody 
or another.” 

George Maclean strolled up. 

“I shall take Elma,” he said. 

“No, you won’t! You take Jean.” 

“I won’t be taken by George Maclean,” cried Jean. 
“He’s always horrid to me.” 

“Wire for Slavska,” interpolated Betty. 

“Is this my wedding, or whose is it?” asked 
Isobel. 

They settled everything once more. The real result 
lay in Mr. Symington’s determination about Mabel. 

He came to Elma afterwards. 

“Is there anything under the sun you want, which you 
haven’t got?” he asked her. “Because I should like to 
present it to you here and now.” 

That cleared up things incalculably for the wedding. 
Elma sitting in front saw only Mabel, and Mabel’s face was 
the colour of a pink rose. Mr. Symington took her out 
of church after the wedding, next to the first brides- 
maid. 

Aunt Katharine followed them with her lorgnette. 
“They’re a fine couple,” she said to Elma. “It’s 
a pity Mabel spoiled herself with this Meredith man. 
Mr. Symington might lead her out in earnest. I always 
told your mother what it would be.” 


332 


The Story Book Girls 

There was no squashing of Aunt Katharine. 

Mabel had begun to see land after having tossed on 
what had seemed an endless sea. She had been without 
any hope at all, but it was necessary to appear through- 
out as though she had some safe anchor holding her in 
port. The joy of delivery was almost more than she 
could bear. She became afraid of looking at Mr. Sym- 
ington. After the arrival of the guests at the White 
House, she managed to slip out and disappear upstairs. 
Her own room had people in it helping to robe Isobel. 
She stole into the schoolroom. Too late in making 
up her mind, since Mr. Symington, seeing a trail of 
pale silken skirts disappear there, tried the only door 
open to him on that landing. He found Mabel. 

“Oh,” said she blankly. “I wanted to get away — 
away from downstairs for a little.” 

He had some difficulty in replying. 

“So I noticed,” he said. 

They lamely waited. Mabel caught at a window 
cord and played with it. 

“We ought to go downstairs,” she whispered. 

Why she spoke in a whisper she could not 
imagine. 

Mr. Symington came close to her. 

“Mabs,” he said, “just for three minutes I mean to 
call you Mabs. And after that — if you are offended — 
you can turn me oiBf to the ends of the earth again. You 
know why I left before.” 

She bent her head a httle. 

“You didn’t want me to go? You didn’t want me to 
go? Say that much, won’t you?” 

She could not answer. 


“Now here there dawneth” 


333 


“I know what it means if you do/’ he said. “Oh don’t 
I know what it means ? Mabs, I’m going to make 
you care for me — as I do for you — can you possibly 
imagine how much I care for you — why won’t you 
speak to me ? ” 

Mabel never spoke to him at all. 

He happened to take her hand just then, and the same 
confidence which had so strangely come to her a few days 
ago on his arrival, came to her once more. He took her 
hand, and time stood still. 

Somebody outside, a vague time afterwards, called 
for Mabel. It dawned on them both that they were 
attending Isobel’s wedding. 

“We ought to go downstairs,” whispered Mabel. 

Her conversation was certainly very limited. They 
both smiled as they noticed this, a comprehensive, 
understanding, oh ! a different smile to any they 
had ever allowed themselves. 

“We will, when you’ve just once — Mabs — look up 
at me. Now — once.” 

Time stood still once more, but it took the last of the 
frown from between the eyes of Mr. Symington. 

“Now for Isobel’s wedding party,” cried he. 

Mr. Leighton was stunned a little with the news. 

“Only one stipulation,” said he. “I want to tell 
Elma myself.” 

Mabel was terribly disappointed. 

“Oh, papa — of all people — I wanted to tell 
Elma.” 

He was adamant however, even when Mr. Symington 
added his requests. 

“You’ve interfered seriously enough between me and 


one of my daughters,” Mr. Leighton said severely. 
“Leave me the other.” 

So nothing was mentioned until Mr. Leighton should 
tell Lima. Mrs. Leighton was nervous about the 
whole thing, yet in an underhand way very proud of 
Mabel. 

“I can’t see that any of you are at all suited to be 
the wife of a man like Mr. Symington,” she said to 
Mabel pessimistically. “But your father thinks it is all 
right.” She had had rather a long way with Aunt Katharine. 

Elma saw that the clouds had lifted where Mabel was 
concerned, and Mr. Symington was in magnificent spirits. 
She thought they might have told her something, but 
she was sent to lie down with no news at all until 
the dance in the evening. Isobel left regally. There was 
not much of the usual scrimmage of a wedding leave- 
taking about her departure. Her toque and costume 
were irreproachable. Miss Meredith attended her duti- 
fully, as though she were a bridesmaid herself. But 
with Robin she had felt too motherly for that. Indeed, 
some new qualities in Miss Meredith seemed to be 
coming uppermost. 

Dancing was in full swing in the evening when Mr. 
Leighton methodically put on an overcoat and took Elma 
to sit out in the verandah. “It is to prevent your dancing 
too much,” he told her. 

Elma had the feeling of being manipulated as she had 
been when she was ill. What did all this mystery mean ? 
She tucked in readily enough beside her father. The 
night was warm, with a clear moon, and the lights from 
the drawing-room and on the balcony shed pretty patches 
of colour on her white dress and cloak. 


‘‘Now here there dawneth” 


335 


Mr. Leighton began to talk of Adelaide Maud of all 
people. She was there, with her sisters. They had at 
last dropped the armour of etiquette which had pre- 
vented more than one from ever appearing at the 
Leightons. 

“I don’t suppose any of you really know what that 
girl has come through,” said Mr. Leighton. “All these 
years it has gone on. A constant criticism, you know. 
Mrs. Dudgeon found out long ago about Cuthbert, and 
what Cuthbert calls ‘roasted’ her continually. Adelaide 
Maud remained the fine magnificently true girl she is 
to-day. That is a difficult matter when one’s own family 
openly despises the people one has set one’s heart on. 
She never gave a sign of giving in either way — did 
she?” 

“Not a sign,” said Lima. “Adelaide Maud is a 
delicious brick, she always has been. The Story Books 
have come true at last.” 

“It does not sound like being in battle,” said Mr. 
Leighton, in a pertinacious way. “But a battle of that 
sort is far more real than many of the fights we back up 
in a public manner. One relieves the poor, and you 
girls give concerts for hospitals, but who can give a con- 
cert to relieve the like of the trouble that Adelaide Maud 
has gone through? She never wavered.” 

Lima thought of another fight — should she tell her 
father ? 

“We talk about Ridgetown’s being a slow place, but 
what a drama can be lived through here!” went on Mr. 
Leighton. “Isobel, for instance, thinks there’s nothing in 
life unless one attends fifty balls a month. Yet she lived 
her little drama in Ridgetown. And she has learned 


336 The Story Book Girls 

to be civil to Miss Meredith. There’s another fight for 
you. It cost her several pangs, let me tell you.” 

(“What did it all lead to?” thought Elma.) 

“Oh, there were other fights too, papa, but one I 
think is over. Have you seen Mabel’s face to- 
night?” 

Mr. Leighton started. 

Elma required some sort of confidant, “or I shall 
explode or something,” she explained. She told her 
father about Mr. Symington. 

“And I’ve been worrying so because it seemed so sad 
about Mabel. And she never gave it away, did she? 
And when you all thought so much of Isobel when she 
first came, and Mabel was getting dropped all round, 
she never said a word, did she?” 

“No,” said Mr. Leighton, with a long-drawn impatient 
sort of relief in his voice. “No, but you did. You 
talked so much about the man all through your illness 
that your mother thought you were in love with him 
yourself. Ridiculous nonsense,” he said testily. “And 
here have I been trying to brace you up to hearing that 
Mabel is engaged to him, and the scoundrel wishes to 
marry her at once.” 

Dr. Merryweather, who had said that Elma was not 
to be excited, ought to have been on the spot just then. 
She sat on her father’s knee and hugged him. 

“Oh, papa, papa, how glorious,” said she. “Never 
mind, I shall always stay with you, I shall, I shall.” 

“Oh, will you?” said Mr. Leighton dismally. “Mabel 
said the same thing not so long ago.” 

Mrs. Leighton and Aunt Katharine came on the bal- 
cony, and behind them, Mabel and Mr. Symington. 


“Now here there dawneth” 


337 

“Isn’t this a midsummer’s night’s dream?” sighed 
Elma, after the congratulations were over. “I shall 
get up in the morning ever afterwards, and I shall 
say, ‘ Now here there dawneth another blue day ’ — even 
although it’s as black as midnight.” 

“Well, now that we’re rid of Mabel,” said Aunt 
Katharine placidly, “when will your turn come 
along ? ” 

“Oh, Elma is going to stay with me,” said Mr. Leigh- 
ton. 

“H’m. Well, she always admired Miss Grace,” 
said Aunt Katharine. “There’s nothing like being 
an old maid from the beginning.” 

Elma stirred herself gently, and laughed in the moon- 
light. 

“Miss Grace is to be married to Dr. Merry weather,” 
she said with a smile. It was her piece of news, reserved 
till now for a proper audience. 

Miss Grace had told her anxiously in the course of 
the afternoon. “Oh,” Elma had said, “how nice! 
Dr. Merryweather is such a duck 1 ” 

“Do you think so?” had asked Miss Grace seriously. 
“Miss Annie used to think he was a little loud in his man- 
ners.” 

Miss Grace would ever be loyal to Miss Annie. 

Adelaide Maud came out just then with Cuthbert. 

“How much finer to have been loyal to the like of Cuth- 
bert 1” Elma could not help the thought. Ah, well, 
there were fights and fights, and no doubt Miss Grace had 
won on her particular battle field. 

A new dance commenced indoors, and some came 
searching for partners. 


z 


338 The Story Book Girls 

^‘Mr. Leighton/^ said the voice of George Maclean. 
“Won’t you spare Elma for this dance?” 

They turned round to look at him. 

“Elma wants to stay with me,” said Mr. Leighton 
gravely, putting his arms round her. 

“Hph!” said Aunt Katharine in an undertone. 
“It’s another Miss Grace sure enough.” 

“Why don’t you go and dance?” asked Adelaide 
Maud of Elma. 

There were her two ideals. Miss Grace and Adelaide 
Maud, crossing swords as it were with one another. And 
there was George Maclean waiting at the window of the 
drawing-room. A Strauss waltz struck up inside, one 
which she loved. Ah, well, there were several kinds 
of fights in the world. She felt in some inscrutable 
way that it was “weak” to stay with her father. 

She went in with George Maclean. 

Mr. Leighton pulled up a chair for his wife, as the 
others, including even Aunt Katharine, faded from the 
balcony. 

“I take this as an omen, they are all leaving us,” 
he said in a sad manner. 

Mrs. Leighton sighed gently. “We did the same our- 
selves, didn’t we, John?” 

And with a Strauss waltz hammering out its Joyous 
commanding rhythm, a son and daughter engaged, and 
Elma just deserted, Mr. Leighton replied very dismally 
indeed, “I suppose so.” 

“Hush,” said Mrs. Leighton. “Who knows? This 
may be another.” 

It was Jean with a University acquaintance of Cuth- 
bert’s. 


“Now here there dawneth” 339 

He placed her carefully in a chair and bent in a loung- 
ing manner over her. 

“You see,” said Jean in a high intense voice, “it’s the 
method that does it.” 

“Ha,” said Mr. Leighton joyously. “Herr Slavska 
may yet save me a daughter.” 



MERRYLIPS 


By BEULAH MARIE DIX 

Author of “ Soldier Rigdalef A Little Captive Ladf etc.^ etc. 

Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill 
i2mo Cloth $1.50 

In the days when King Charles and the Roundheads went to war, 
there lived in Wiltshire a little girl who was called Merrylips. Her 
true name was Sybil Venner, but it was far too stately for such a little 
romp as she. For Merrylips liked to play with her big brothers, and 
she wished herself to be a boy and to have adventures. When the 
war broke out, she had adventures in plenty, and strangest of all, she 
had to put on doublet and breeches and be a little boy. As a little 
boy she lived in a Cavalier garrison, and went through a siege, and 
escaped by night with one comrade, a lad called Rupert. And what 
happened to her in her flight, and how she found that Roundheads 
were not all wicked, and who Rupert proved to be, and why Merry- 
lips thought in the end that she would as lief be a girl as a little boy 

— all these things the book must tell in its due place. 

“ From every point of view ‘ Merrylips ’ claims only words of com- 
mendation. It tells an original story trenchantly, vividly, and convinc- 
ingly. It teaches history thoughtfully and memorably, and its ethics 

— more deeply rooted and subtly set forth than most readers, old or 
young, may gather in a superficial reading — are enduringly whole- 
some, wise, and sweet .” — New York Times. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 


64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 


EIGHT SECRETS 

By ERNEST INGERSOLL 
i2nio Cloth Illustrated $1.50 

This is a story of how a fine lad fell into astonishing difficulties, and 
worked his way out of them in manly fashion ; and of how a wide- 
awake girl helped him. 

They live simply, in a Pennsylvania village, and do things, inventing 
wonderful machines, and so forth. 

Presently the eight secrets crop up, — though no one recognizes 
them at the time ; and because the lad is honorable and the girl loyal, 
a very serious misunderstanding follows, and hero and reader find 
themselves in the midst of Secret Service officers, railroad detectives, 
and a lot of interesting people and puzzling circumstances, all bent on 
discovering — nobody knows what until the last chapter. 


THE LIFE OF ANIMALS 

(THE MAMMALS) 

By ERNEST INGERSOLL 

Author of " Wild Neighbors^' "An Island in the Air," etc., etc. 

Crown 8 VO Cloth Fully Illustrated $2.00 net 

This is one of the most important books on natural history pub- 
lished in recent years, in that it describes the life of animals, not their 
imagined sentiments. It aims to make clear the part that animals play 
in the daily life of the world, rather than their position in a museum 
or scheme of classification. 

The ancestry, the place in nature, the means of living, the character 
and accomplishments of each of the mammals is clearly set forth and 
bountifully illustrated. 

The illustrations include some fifteen colored plates, prepared espe- 
cially for this work, more than one hundred reproductions of hitherto 
unpublished photographs from life, and many original drawings. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YOKE 


THE ODYSSEY 
FOR BOYS AND GIRLS 

By Rev. A. J. CHURCH 

Author of " The Story of the Iliad," “ The Story of the Odyssey," etc., etc. 
With Sixteen Full-page Illustrations in Color 
Crown 8vo Cloth $1.50 net 

No one has done more to make the name of the ancient Greek 
heroes and gods familiar to the children than the Rev. A. J. Church. 
In “The Odyssey for Boys and Girls” Mr. Church has retold the 
Homeric tale, adding nothing to the original, but omitting and con- 
densing somewhat, making clear the difficult places, and skilfully fill- 
ing in gaps in the story by occasional transpositions. 


THE RAILWAY CHILDREN 

By E. NESBIT 

Author of "The Phoenix and the Carpet" " The Would-he- Goods," etc. 

With Many Illustrations by Charles Brock 

i2mo Cloth $1.50 

Tells about some English children who, with their mother, go to live 
in a little house not far from a railway siding ; how they live, and the 
adventures they have ; how they save the train ; and how they finally 
bring their father home. 

E. Nesbit is well known as “ the author of some of the most fasci- 
nating books ever written for young people, which means, of course, 
that they are just as fascinating to older ones,” says the Herald. 

The Springfield Republican classes them among “ the few, the very 
few ‘juveniles’ that can be commended without reserve to grown-up 
readers.” 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 


THE WONDER CHILDREN 

By CHARLES J. BELLAMY 
i2mo Cloth Copiously Illustrated $1.50 

The book will prove a delight to all children, and especially to those 
fortunate enough to be read to. The “ Wonder j Children ” are quite 
of the 20th century kind, but their experiences teach them to see the 
fairies, giants, goblins, etc., among which all children move. The 
book contains distinct lessons for character building, but the moral 
lies in the action, not in sermonizing. 

A strikingly artistic cover and full illustrations make it so attractive 
that no one can go wrong in selecting it as a gift for any child under 
ten or twelve. 

Of some of Bellamy’s stories, the Young People's Weekly of Chicago 
said a short time ago : “ Mr. Bellamy seems to understand child na- 
ture and just what children need to interest them and at the same time 
be of use to them. We do not know when we have chanced upon a 
book of stories for the little folks that holds such a rare charm as this. 
We imagine that many a child, after he has read the book or had it 
read to him, will re-read it simply by means of the illustrations. Each 
story inculcates, without appearing to try to do so, some little lesson 
which the child will be better for the learning. The book will not 
only make a beautiful Christmas gift but will be just as welcome as a 
birthday gift. It is most attractive in every way.” 

JASPER 

^ A STORY FOR CHILDREN 

By Mrs. MOLESWORTH 

Author of " Carrots," " Cuckoo Clock',' “ Tell Me a Story," etc,, etc. 

With Illustrations by Gertrude Demain Hammond 

i2mo Cloth $1.50 

A new story by Mrs. Molesworth is always a welcome addition to 
juvenile literature. 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

64-66 FIFTH ATENTTE, NEW YOBE 























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